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4 





’BETH’S PROMISE 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY, 

Author OF “Coaina,” “Ftemmings,” “Tangued Paths,* 
“May Brooke,” etc., etc., etc. 


FIFTH THOUSAND. 



JOHN MURPHY COMPANY, 



BALTIMORE, MD. : 


NEW YORK: 


P23 

.m 73? 



Copyright, 1887, 

By anna HANSON DORSEY. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


By Transfer 
D. C. Public Library 

one 22 1938 


\ 


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• , ( • 



WITHDRAWN 

1 . 79397 <^ 


’Bexh’s Promisk. 


CHAPTER 1. * 

BETWEEN SUNRISE AND SUNSET. 

“I AM going to make a white mark for this 
day, mamma; it has been altogether the happiest 
one I ever knew! First of all, a long letter from 
dear papa; then, shopping with you, to buy my 
lovely silk dress — my first young lady’s dress, 
mamma; then the sky so clear and blue, and the 
sunshine so bright and pleasant after the storm! 
Oh, dearest mamma, haven’t we enjoyed our- 
selves, and won’t papa be glad when I write and 
tell him what a nice time we’ve had!” exclaimed 
’Beth Morley, as she tripped up the ^marble steps 
to the hall door of their house, her sweet, clear 
voice ringing with the gladness of her young life, 
her cheeks dimpling with smiles. 

“Yes, it has been a very happy day, ’Beth; I 
don’t know when I have enjoyed myself more,” 
answered Mrs. Morley, with a fond look at the 
bright, eager face smiling into hers. 

“That’s because I was with you, Lady-Bird; 
you know it was, ’ ’ said ’ Beth, tossing back the 
strav golden curls that the wind was blowing 

3 


4 


’bkth’s promise. 


over her face; “and oh, mamma, did you notice 
in papa’s letter, all through, how proud he is of 
his ship, and how satisfied he is with his officers, 
— ‘a gentlemanly, nice, brave set of fellows,’ he 
says?’' 

“Yes, I noticed,” said Mrs. Morley, while a 
shadow flitted over her face, and her mouth grew 
hard and stern for a moment, but only for a 
moment. “Ring again, ’Beth; I am very tired, 
and quite ready for my lunch. I hope Andrew 
has thought to make me a cup of tea.” 

“Here he is, mamma. Now, Andy, have you 
got a cup of nice hot tea for mamma?” said 
’Beth, as the servant man opened the door — a 
grave, respectable-looking person, who had been 
with Captain Morley on most of his cruises, and 
had followed him through the perils of the war, 
serving him with rare and affectionate fidelity 
under all circumstances until, owing to a hurt he 
had received; from a spent ball at the storming of 
a fort on the Mississippi, he was ordered home, 
and was only reconciled to the separation from 
his captain, by being placed by him in charge of 
his family, and the assurance that he should go 
with him on his next cruise. He did not answer 
’Beth; there was a preoccupied and almost 
frightened look in his dusky face, as he took up 
the card-tray from the hall table and held it to- 
wards Mrs. Morley. There was but a single 
large card on it. 

“The Secretary’s been here, madam,” he 


'BKTH S PROMISE. 


5 


said, as she glanced at it and tossed it back in the 
tray, and was passing on towards the dining- 
room. ‘‘He came back ag’in, madam, and when 
he found you wasn’t in yet, he left word — and 
told me to be sure and tell you — he’d be here at 
4 o’clock,” said Andrew, following his mistress, 
and placing a chair for her. 

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Morley, in a startled 
tone, “what could have brought him here? Did 
he leave no message, Andrew?” 

“Nothing but what I told you, madam; he 
only seemed bent upon seeing you, and he looked 
glummer’ n he does in general.” 

“Come, ’Beth, I won’t wait; I cannot wait for 
him a whole hour! It is so strange! I must 
know at once what it all means. Come — I am 
going straight to his house; I don’t want him to 
come here again — particularly if he has any ill 
news to tell me,” exclaimed Mrs. Morley, in an 
agitated tone. 

“Oh, mamma, rest a little first, and get a cup 
of tea. I expect papa has been promoted, and 
he only wanted to be the first to tell you, ’ ’ said 
’Beth. “Oh, Andy, you should not have worried 
mamma with this until she had got rested and 
had refreshed herself. Yes, dear mamma, I am 
coming,” she answered, as her mother, already 
in the hall, called to her. 

“I was afeard there was news from the captain 
that she ought to know. Miss,” said Andrew, 
humbly; but ’Beth had left the room, and he 


6 


’bETH’S PROMISE!. 


heard the front door shut after them. ‘ ‘ I know 
there’s bad news; something or other’s gone 
wrong with the captain, and I not there to stand 
by him!” Andrew covered his face with his 
hands, and a great sob burst from his lips. 

The Secretary of the Navy, himself a distin- 
guished naval officer, lived quite near; they had 
only a square to walk and a corner to turn to 
reach his elegant residence. And ’Beth growled 
all the way, full of indignation. “He might 
have known how tired you’d be, mamma, and 
that you would not be glad to see him ; he needn’t 
have come so often, taking people’s breath away 
with his messages! After all, I expect it’s some 
stupid nonsense about buoys and torpedoes and 
those everlasting sand-banks he’s always talking 
about. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Morley did not utter a word, but walked 
very fast, her previous fatigue and aching feet 
quite forgotten in the strange, indefinable dread 
that had taken possession of her. A few minutes 
brought them to Secretary Ashton’s door; and 
the porter, seeing their approach through the 
lace blinds that covered the vestibule glass, ad- 
mitted them instantly, ushered them into one of 
the closed drawing-rooms, opened a shutter, and 
went to hand in Mrs. Morley’ s card. 

“I hope he won’t make a mistake, and take 
my card to Mrs. Ashton.” 

“They’re all in New York, mamma; Lillian 
Gray told me so yesterday,” said ’Beth. “But 


bkth’s promise. 


7 

sit dowu in this great cushioned chair, dear; you 
are so tired!” 

“’Beth, do not talk; just let me alone, my child: 
I cannot, I would not sit down in this house, 
were I ever so weary. I am so restless, it re- 
lieves me to keep walking. Oh, I wish he would 
come ! ’ ’ 

“I think I hear him in the hall now, mamma 
— yes — those are his footsteps; do try to be calm, 
mamma. ’ ’ 

No need to tell her that. By the time Secre- 
tary Ashton entered the room, she was standing 
as still and white as marble, not even seeking to 
veil the scorn and dislike expressed in her sensi- 
tive face; she was only intent on concealing 
every trace of the agitation and dread that he 
had caused her by his unusual visits and his 
message; he should not triumph so far as to 
know they had in the least disturbed her. He 
offered her his hand, which she barely touched, 
and invited her to be seated. She could but ob- 
serve that there was a troubled, worried look in 
his sallow face. 

“You called twice at my house, Mr. Secretary, 
while I was out, and left word with my servant 
that you would come again at half-past four 
o’clock. Imagining that your business with me 
must be very urgent, I came directly, although 
I have just got home, to see what it might be, 
as well as to relieve you of the necessity of call- 
ing again.” She remained standing, and spoke 


8 


beth’s promise. 


in a calm, proud tone, which he appciared not to 
notice — or, if he did, he was indifferent to it. 

“Sit down, my dear lady; my errand was ur- 
gent; but sit down. I can tell you nothing until 
you sit down,” he said, drawing forward a chair. 

“Excuse me; I prefer standing, and I wish to 
hear at once what I have to know, ’ ’ she answered 
quietly. 

“ But, madam — for God’s sake, sit down!” 

“Admiral Ashton,” she said, fixing her eyes 
steadily on his, “you have news of my husband. 
What is it?” 

“I have, madam; but sit down, I beg of you; 
here on the sofa — ” 

“Sir, this is the merest trifling. I will not sit 
down under your roof, and you know the reason 
why. I can forgive injuries done to myself, but 
injustice to my husband — my brave, noble hus- 
band — never! You understand me. Now tell 
me your news; had it been good news, you would 
not, probably, have been so zealous to impart it.” 

“Madam — Mrs. Morley — indeed you wrong 
me! I was always his friend — ” 

'‘^Was! That is the way people speak of the 
dead. Admiral Ashton, is my husband dead?” 

He was silent; he covered his face for an in- 
stant with his hand. How could he tell her 
here, away from her own home? By this time 
’Beth was at her side, her strong arm around her, 
her face very pale. 

“Tell me, is my husband dead?” she asked 


’beth’s promise. 9 

again — in that high-strung, concentrated hey 
always expressive of keen agony. 

‘ ‘ Be composed, madam ; bear up now — ^but — 
but — I am pained to say, it is so. Your brave 
husband, the most gallant officer in the service, 
is dead.” 

A wild shriek burst from her lips, and she 
dropped to the floor in a dead faint. ’Beth, in a 
tumult of grief and terror, half- wild at seeing 
her thus prostrate upon the floor, and perhaps 
dead, exclaimed: “What did you send him away 
for? What made you break your promise, and 
send him away from us — off* to sea again, when 
his time would not be up where he was for two 
years? Oh, you cruel, wicked man! Oh, mamma! 
mamma!” she screamed, throwing her arms 
around her mother and lifting her head to her 
breast; “Oh, my mamma! come back to me!” 
But minutes passed before she showed any sign 
of life. At last she opened her eyes, shuddered 
violently for a minute, and attempted to rise. 
‘ ‘We must go — go home, ’ ’ she whispered. ‘ ‘Help 
me, ’Beth,” 

“Yes, darling, you shall go. Lean on me; I 
am strong, you know,” said ’Beth, while torrents 
of tears drenched her cheeks. 

The Secretary offered wine, and would have 
aided her to rise; but she would accept nothing, 
and shrunk from his touch as if it had given her 
severe physical pain. 

“My carriage is at the door, madam; let me 


lO 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


prevail on you to use it; you are really in no 
condition to walk home,” he said, stung bitterly 
by the whole scene, yet trying to show kindness, 
although he felt guilty and miserable. 

“No, sir. Had you kept faith with my hus- 
band, I should not now be desolate, and his child 
fatherless. I will ask you no questions ; his friend 
and mine. Captain Brandt, will hear all that you 
may have to tell — about — about — oh, my God!” 
she cried, striking her forehead — “about all that 
has happened. Come, my child. Oh, can it — 
can it be true ? ’ ’ 

They left the house together, the grief-stricken 
mother and daughter, and hastened homeward, 
frightening those they passed by the wild, woe- 
begone expression of their pallid faces, and the 
unusually rapid haste they made. Andrew 
awaited them at the door, and as it closed Mrs. 
Morley once more fell to the floor, unconscious. 

“Oh, Andy, papa is dead! Oh, help mamma! 
lift her up and carry her to her own room, then 
run and tell Captain Brandt to come,” cried the 
poor young creature, into whose life no sorrow 
had ever come before. Trembling and sobbing, 
his face an ashen gray, the faithful servant 
obeyed, muttering all the way: “If I had been 
there he wouldn’t ha’ died. But here I am; and 
he, worth ten thousand like me, gone!” 

He laid Mrs. Morley upon the bed as tenderly 
as if she had been an infant; the sight of her 
still, white face, set with the anguish that had 


’bkth’s promise. 


II 


so suddenly wrung her heart, redoubled his grief; 
and, weeping and moaning aloud, he hastened 
to send the housekeeper to her assistance with 
restoratives, then went with the dreadful news 
to Captain Brandt. Poor ’Beth, nearly wild be- 
tween her sorrow for her father and her dread 
lest her mother should never wake to life again, 
filled the house with her cries, and wrung her 
hands as she hung over her, kissing her white 
lips and drenching her unconscious face with the 
hot tears that, happily for her, nature did not 
refuse to give. 

And so in one little hour the bright sunshine 
had gone out of their lives; their gladness had 
suffered a sudden and dark eclipse, and to that 
fair young girl just on the threshold of life, had 
come a bitter and heavy loss, the loss of a fond, 
affectionate father, a man whose nature was truly 
noble; who, with the highest courage, had the 
tenderness of a woman for the suffering, the 
weak, and the oppressed; whose record was 
bright with heroic acts in the service of his 
country, and upon whose pages not even the 
shadow of a stain had ever fallen. 

On his way to Captain Brandt’s, Andrew had 
rushed into the office of the family physician, 
who happened to be in, and begged him to go 
without delay to Mrs. Morley. “If you don’t 
find her dead, sir, it’ll be mor’n I expect,” he 
said then rushed out again, before Dr. Miller 
found an opportunity to make a single inquiry’. 


12 


’bkth’s promise. 


Knowing Andrew to be a grave, steady fellow, 
the doctor imagined that something extraordi** 
nary must have happened, to have thrown him 
into such a panic, and without more ado he 
sprang into his carriage, and in a few minutes 
was by Mrs. Morley’s bedside, where he learned 
from the housekeeper, in broken sentences, all 
that had happened. Moved by the deepest sym- 
pathy, and with a pang of deep distress at the 
loss of so old and dear a friend, he lost no time 
in doing all that his skill suggested for the recov- 
ery of the grief-stricken woman; finally, when 
he almost thought the shock had killed her, he 
felt her pulse faintly quiver under his finger, and 
then, with a shudder and a moan, life struggled 
back to her heart. Captain and Mrs. Brandt 
now came, almost speechless with agitation, for 
he who was dead had been the dearest and most 
intimate friend they had in the world. Choking 
back their own sorrow, they exerted every effort 
to soothe Mrs. Morley; to attempt to console her 
would be vain, they knew, for such grief must 
have its way, and they only ‘ ‘ uttered words of 
endearment’’ and the deepest sympathy, “when 
words of consolation availed not.” At last, 
when floods of tears gushed from her burning 
eyes, giving relief to her overwrought heart and 
brain, they felt comforted. 

“Let her cry, let her cry; it will save her,” 
whispered Dr. Miller. “My God! it was a terri- 
ble blow to fall upon a sensitive heart like hers. 


’beth’s promise. 


13 


Poor fellow! How did it happen, Brandt? and 
when? He was the bravest officer in the navy. 
How did it happen? was he drowned, or wrecked, 
or what?’’ 

The doctor and Captain Brandt were on their 
way down stairs, and stood together for a mo- 
ment in the hall. 

have heard no particulars. The first word 
I heard of it was a half hour ago, when Andrew 
came to my house with the news. I am going 
now to see the Secretary — who, I suppose, re- 
ceived the telegram — to ask the particulars. I 
have a faint hope that there may be a mistake 
somewhere. Morley was my best friend on earth; 
I loved him more than if he were a brother!” 
said the old officer, over whose bronzed cheeks 
fell heavy tears. 

“Don’t go. Miller, until I get back; you may 
be needed upstairs. That poor little girl! did 
you notice how brave she is trying to be for her 
mother’s sake, and how much she looks like her 
father? I’ll be back presently.” 

Captain Brandt went to the Secretary’s, sent 
in his card, and was admitted. He found the 
functionary wrapped in a fur cloak, lying upon 
a lounge beside a wood fire, completely unnerved 
by the scene he had passed through, and toning 
himself up with frequent draughts of hot whisky 
punch. 

Captain Brandt’s hope was vain. There was 
no mistake; the news was strictly official, and 


14 


’bkth’s tromisk. 


came by telegraph. A violent hurricane had 
swept the Gulf, and every ship and vessel in its 
track had been nearly or quite wrecked, except 
the “Portland,” Captain Morley’s, which he had 
by almost superhuman exertions finally saved, 
by running her out to sea in the teeth of such a 
wind as was scarcely ever known before. A 
night and day, aided by officers and crew, he 
battled with wind and waves, never for one in- 
stant relaxing his personal vigilance, or sparing 
the use of his own arms at the ropes or elsewhere, 
if need be, until at last, when, drenched and ex- 
hausted, his ship was safe, he threw himself upon 
his cot, and fell asleep. His servant passing 
through, saw him lying there in his wet clothes, 
spread his heavy cloak over him, and was care- 
ful not to awake him, knowing that sailors laugh 
at the idea of salt water ever giving any one a 
cold. But when Captain Morley awoke out of 
his ten hours’ sleep, he had congestion of the 
lungs, and was in a high fever. All that human 
skill suggested was done by the ship’s surgeon 
for his relief; he did not leave the captain’s bed- 
side for a moment, administered every remedy 
himself, and when one failed, had another at 
hand; but all to no avail; the brave sailor 
bieathed his last just as the ship dropped her 
anchors at Key West. 

That was the substance of what Captain Brandt 
gathered from the telegram, and he rose to go. 

“Please offer my sympathy to Mrs. Morley,” 


’beth’s promise. 


IS 


said tlie Secretary, shaking hands. ‘^She blames 
me, I know, for sending poor Morley to sea, but 
she doesn’t understand how it was. Any way, 
Brandt, assure her that I am at her service, and 
that I particularly wish — when the remains 
come — the funeral to be of the most imposing 
character the service allows, to show honor to 
the memory of a brave, heroic man.” 

“When Mrs. Morley is more composed. Ad- 
miral” — so the older officers, forgetting his new 
rank, sometimes called him — “I will deliver 
your message. Good day, sir.” Captain Brandt 
marched out, giving vent to his bitter indigna- 
tion, when he got on the pavement, by one or 
two imprecations in the emphatic vernacular of 
the sea, which sailors declare mean no harm, and 
are as necessary to their relief when under high 
pressure as “blowing” is to a whale. When 
he got back to Mrs. Morley’ s, the doctor was 
waiting for him, eager to hear if there might be 
a faint hope gleaned from the telegram: but, as 
he soon learned, there was not; the sad news 
was too briefly and distinctly told to be mis- 
understood. 

“I will say nothing to her about it to-night,” 
added Captain Brandt. “To-morrow I shall 
undoubtedly get a letter from Commander 
Brooke, the executive officer of the ‘Portland,’ 
who knows all about the old friendship between 
Morley and myself. I’m sure he’ll write. But 
how is she, doctor?” 


i6 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


“Apparently calm; but every nerve is stiung^ 
and every emotion suppressed as by a will of 
iron: unnatural, all of it. I thought she’d goon 
crying and moaning as other women do, but her 
tears didn’t last long. It seems as if there were 
a sense of wrong mingled with her grief. God 
help her!” 

“So there is!” growled the captain, his gray 
eyes scintillating wrathful sparkles. 

“I am sorry to hear it; her loss is bitter 
enough without any other sting. I tried to get 
her to swallow a composing draught, but she 
said: ‘It would only make my awakening more 
bitter; it will be best for me to look my sorrow 
in the face, doctor,’ so piteously that I did not 
insist upon it; and I don’t know but she is 
right.” 

The doctor went away, and Captain Brandt 
was about going upstairs, when, in the dusky 
hall, for it was twilight and the hall lamp not 
yet lighted, he felt some one touch his arm, and 
heard a hoarse whisper. “Tell me ’bout it, 
Cap’n; for God’s sake, sir, tell me how it hap- 
pened.” It was poor Andrew, bowed and trem- 
bling, his old heart broken for the friend he had 
lost. 

“Andrew, my poor fellow,” said Captain 
Brandt, wringing his hand, while his eyes were 
for the moment blinded with tears, “I’ll tell you 
all I know. But come into the dining-room; she 
might hear us, and I don’t want her to be 
troubled any more to-night” 


’beth’s promise. 


17 


“Oh, didn’t I say so! didn’t I know it!” ex- 
claimed the old negro, wringing his hands; 
“didn’t I say if I had been there it wouldn’t ha’ 
happened! Do yo think I’d ha’ let him lay there 
in his wet clothes? No: I’d ha’ waked him up 
an’ made him put on dry ones, an’ made him 
drink hot coffee, if he had pitched me overboard 
for it. He wouldn’t ha’ died if I had bin there 
to take care of him. Captain, please to shoot me 
right through my head; I can’t live, sir, artei 
this; I can’t, indeed, sir!” 

“See here, Andy, confound you! stop such 
foolishness, or I’ll break your head instead of 
putting a ball into it. Is that the way to show 
your love for your captain — wanting to put your- 
self out of the way, when you’ve got his wife and 
child to serve and watch over for his sake? Cry, 
old fellow; cry your eyes out, if it will do you 
any good — the Lord knows we’ve all got enough 
to make us cry; but no more such foolishness as 
that.” 

“Aye, master, you’re right. I’ll try. I’ll try 
to do what he would ’spect me to do; yes, sir, 
he’s my cap’n yet, if he is dead. Oh, sir, if 
you’d seen them two, how happy they was over 
his letter this morning, and heard them talking 
and laughing over it, and calling me to hear his 
messages, and all ’bout his ship, that he seemed 
so proud of, and if you only knowed how pretty 
and how glad they both looked when they 
c omed home in the sunshine to-day, up to the 

I* 


i8 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


minute I told her that Sec’taiy Ashton had been 
here twice! — oh, I^ord! what grief to come be- 
tween sunrise and sunset!” 

“Sit down there, Andy,” said Captain Brandt, 
deeply touched, pushing Andy into a corner of 
the sofa; “sit there and cry it out, old fellow; 
only keep as quiet as you can, for the sake of 
those upstairs; and, mind you! no more of that 
foolishness you spoke of just now.” And there, 
when Captain Brandt had left the room, closing 
the door after him, the poor old soul sobbed him- 
self to sleep. 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


IQ 


CHAPTER II. 

“out of the DEPTIIS.” 

The next day’s mail brought the letter that 
Captain Brandt had hoped for from his friend. 
It was brief, written immediately after Captain 
Morley’s death, in substance the same as the 
telegram, except a few details which made it 
infinitely more satisfactory and precious. Com- 
mander Brooke concludes as follows: 

“He realized his danger from the very fiist; 
he told the surgeon that weak lungs was a family 
failing of his people. He spoke to me several 
times of his wife and daughter, in the fondest 
tones, and when he saw how much we were 
affected by his sufferings, he rallied, and his 
voice rang out in its old cheerful way as he 
waved his hand and said: “ ‘What’s the odds! I 
die, but the ship is saved. ’ He fixed his eyes on 
the crayon portrait of his wife, that always hung 
in his state-room, and murmured: ‘My wife! — 
my poor little ’Beth!’ After this his mind wan- 
dered; the words: ‘Ship saved!’ ‘Duty before 
all,’ were the last he uttered, and the gallant 
fellow’s life ebbed as gently away as the going 
out of a summer’s tide. Our surgeon was in 
constant attendance, doing everything that skill 


20 


’ BETH'S PROMISE. 


and kindness could suggest for his relief. All 
of us feel the deepest sorrow; the sailors, who 
idolized him, gather in groups, talk of his 
courage, and how good he was to them, ‘ if he 
was strict,’ and don’t care to hide the tears that 
roll over their rough faces. But I must stop; 
the mail-boat is waiting. I will see that all of 
the Captain’s effects are forwarded to your care 
by the first opportunity, and will send the re- 
mains on as soon as the weather gets cold. Offer 
my respectful services and sympathies to Mrs. 
Morley, and tell her that her loss is also ours, 
and that we grieve with her. He was the purest 
of men, the bravest of officers. 

“In haste, yours, 

‘ ‘ Charles Brooke. ’ ’ 

That was all. Shutting himself in his library. 
Captain Brandt gave way to his grief, and read . 
the letter over and over again; then, recollecting 
the duty that lay before him, he controlled his 
emotion, blew his nose with a trumpet note, 
dashed some cold water into his eyes, swallowed 
a glass of brandy and water, got his overcoat and 
hat on, and was on his way out, but turned to 
call to his wife and tell her not to go out — that 
he would be back soon ; he had got a letter from 
Brooke, and was on his way to Mrs. Morley’ s to 
read it to her. “There’s no mistake: he’s 
dead.” He did not wait to answer questions; 
he shrank from his painful task, and thought 
the sooner it was over the better. The hall dooi 
was closed with a bang, and he was gone. 


’beth’s promise. 


21 


Captain Brandt found Mrs. Morlej?’ quite calm, 
with not a vestige of color in her face except the 
dark purple rings under her eyes, which she had 
not closed all night. He told her of the letter; 
she started, and fixed her eyes questioningly on 
him, as if, after all, there lingered a hope that 
the nev'S of the telegram had proved false. Cap- 
tain Brandt understood the mute appeal. 

“Have courage, my dear lady,” he said. 
“Yesterday’s news is confirmed. Shall I read 
you Brooke’s letter, or would you prefer reading 
it yourself? ” He hoped that she would choose 
the latter, for he felt his courage oozing away. 

“Read it to me, if you please,” she answered, 
closing her eyes. 

He read every word, and, except a quivering 
of the nerves of her face, she showed no sign of 
how it was wringing her heart. 

“I suppose I know all now,” she said, when 
he finished, holding out her hand for the letter, 
which he gave her. Reading, and pondering 
every word, as if there might be some deeper 
meaning under it all, which the Captain had 
failed to understand, she went over it twice; but 
there it was, in black and white — ^he was dead; 
they would never meet again on earth. 

“ I ought to cry. I wish I could, but my eyes 
burn, and everything is benumbed. It is not 
heartlessness. Captain Brandt; you know how I 
loved him, and how proud I was of him ; but it 
is strange that, knowing he is dead, I am not 


22 


’beth’s promise. 


frenzied with grief. The hurt is so deep that I 
think it has killed me, in a way. It is not 
courage — or resignation; it is all so unreal, so 
strange, that — that — perhaps it is a horrible 
dream, from which I shall awake and find every- 
thing as it was. Don’t you wish it was a dream. 
Captain Brandt?” 

“I’d give my own life to make it so, dear lady. 
But come, you must try and bear it; bear it, 
you know, as he would like to see his wife bear 
affliction; you must do it for his sake,” said the 
Captain, smoothing her cold hand, and wishing 
he could say something about heaven and the 
consolations of religion, but he was all at sea on 
such topics as those. “Then, you know, there’s 
poor ’Beth, poor little girl! you must think of 
her; indeed you must now,” he added, almost at 
his wits’ end. 

“Yes; ’Beth must be thought of. You mean 
well, my friend, and I’m glad you spoke. Will 
you write — to — to my husband’s aunt. Miss 
Elizabeth Morley, for me, and tell her all that 
has happened, and ask her to come to us? ’Beth 
must have some one to comfort her — I can’t. 
You have been very kind. Captain Brandt — you 
and your wife; and I thank you — thank you. 
Ah! I know how you loved him! ” 

“Certainly I’ll write, with the greatest — I 
mean at once. What is Miss Morley’ s address?” 
answered the Captain. “ That or any thing else 
I can do — I am at your service day or night, 
madam.” 


’beth’s promise. 


23 


“Alton Post-Of5ce, Seneca County, New 
York. I accept your friendly offer; for oh! 
there’s so much to be done before all is finished!” 
she said, thinking of the time in the near future, 
when the remains of her husband would be 
brought home for burial. 

A servant came in with two cards on the tray. 
“I can see no one. Why did you bring them 
up? Tell every one that I do not see visitors,” 
said Mrs. Morley, turning away from the cards. 

“So I do, ma’am; the hall table’s filled with 
cards — so many keeps on cornin’ to inquire how 
you does, an’ if they can do anything for you an’ 
Miss ’Beth.” 

“ They are very kind; but what is it all to me, 
since he can never come again? ” she murmured. 

“But, my dear lady, look here,” said Cap- 
tain Brandt, glancing at the cards, “it is the 
parson and his wife; maybe they might be able 
to comfort you; — indeed, I think you’d better 
see them!” said the Captain, thanking his stars 
that they would know how to say all those pious 
things to her which good people, women especi- 
ally, found comfort in when under affliction. 

“Invite them up, Nelly — but no one else, re- 
member. Not that I expect to be comforted by 
anything, Mr. Haller can say,” she added to 
Captain Brandt, after the servant had left the 
room; “but he means kindly, and I would not 
wound him by refusing to see him and Mrs. 
Haller. What is there on earth, who is there 


24 


’beth’s promise. 


left to comfort me ? It seems like mockery even 
to think of comfort.” 

“ Have courage, have courage!” said the Cap- 
tain; “ Mrs. Brandt and I will be here this even- 
ing, I’ll write to Miss Morley as soon as I get 
home. But here they are,” he said as the dooi 
opened to admit the pastor and his wife, giving 
him the opportunity to slip out unobserved. 

Mr. and Mrs. Haller were overflowing with 
sympathy, nor were their tears withheld as they 
expressed it in kindly words; he offered the pre- 
scribed consolations of his creed, and read the 
touching prayers of its liturgy for those who are 
in affliction; but in the presence of such white, 
silent anguish as that before him, he forbore in- 
sisting upon a resignation which would stifle the 
human cry of a broken heart. Thinking it 
best not to weary her, the gentleman and his 
wife soon took their leave, but returned daily, 
sparing no effort to win the bereaved woman to 
a consideration of things which would give her 
peace of mind. 

But in vain all these well-meant ministrations. 
White and silent, Mrs. Morley’ s heart was filled 
only with her loss — a loss which had aroused 
other regrets known only to herself, which stung 
her like adders, leaving her nothing on which to 
lean in this great tribulation. To ’Beth, Mrs. 
Haller proved a comforting, kindly friend, and 
many a time she sobbed out the grief which, for 
her mother’s sake, she sought to repress in her 


’beth’s promise. 


25 


presence, upon her breast. Later on, the pastor 
again attempted in a more emphatic manner to 
admonish and console the grief-stricken woman, 
who dared not think of her happy past, while she 
turned away from the future with almost terror, 
bearing the indescribable anguish of the present 
without a hope beyond it. Her husband was 
dead, and nothing they could say or do could 
bring him back to her; nothing that they said 
or did could help him where he was, or give her 
a hope that death had not broken every tie be- 
tween them. 

“No, no, Mr. Haller!” she exclaimed, one 
day; “don’t talk to me any more of resignation 
and the will of God! I can’t bear it! I am no 
more resigned to-day than I was at first, and 
words, words are just empty sounds. Nor will 
I ever believe that God was cruel enough to will 
that my true, noble, brave husband, should die 
like that. No! had Admiral Ashton kept faith 
with him, I should not be desolate this day. He 
— after his long sea services — after all that he 
did so gloriously in the war — after being sepa- 
rated from his family year after year, seeing us 
only now and then — he was placed in command 
at the Naval Academy, with Admiral Ashton’s 
pledged word that there he should remain for 
four years— ‘deserving such rest,’ he said, ‘after 
his long and gallant sea service.’ And yet, in 
less than two years, he was ordered to the ‘ Port- 
land.’ Our home was broken up in midwinter. 


26 


’bETH S PROMISE. 


and an officer who was a favorite at court — 
whose record could show no war service, he hav- 
ing been kept on a foreign station on account of 
ill-health until the war was over — was appointed 
to the place. And this is the end of it; this, 
this — oh, my God ! it was not Thy ordering that 
my husband went to his death ; it was a mean 
intrigue, the breaking of a promise that he had 
accepted in good faith, that led to it!” 

“But it must comfort you,” said Mr. Haller, 
in slow, solemn tones, “to know that the renown 
of his valuable services rests like a halo around 
his name; and that dying as he did, at the post 
of duty, is a worthy close to a life like his.” 

Poor Mr. Haller had offered all the religious 
consolation at his command to assuage her grief ; 
and, finding how useless it seemed to be, fell 
back upon the human, as a pagan might have 
done when comforting a friend, by speaking of 
the approaching apotheosis of the dead hero they 
mourned. But this also failed, like the rest. 

“Comfort!” she said, bitterly. “No! I take 
comfort in nothing, since all his renown, all his 
splendid fame, cannot bring him back to me; and 
I pray — yes, I pray that the curse of a widowed 
heart may fall upon the man by whose capricious 
will my husband went to his death, ket the 
world smirk and smile when they talk about their 
dead hero — he is not theirs, that’s why they can 
do it- -but mine, mine — but dead — and what do 
I care for empty honors? There’s only one thing 
that could comfort me in the least.” 


’bkth’s promise. 


27 


“And wliat may that be, Mrs. Morley?” said 
the pastor, pricking up his ears for something 
that he could at last take hold of. 

“To pray for him — now — as I do. Yes! it is 
all I can do. I pray for him as Catholics pray 
for their dead; it is the only prayer I utter; and 
the only grief I can think of that was greater 
than mine, was that of the Mother of Jesus, who 
pities the sorrowful, and helps them, too.” 

“My dear friend,” said Mr. Haller, greatly 
shocked, “trust in God! Peace will come to 
your sorely troubled heart after a season, when, 
leaning upon the immeasurable mercy and prom- 
ise of the Almighty Disposer of events, you will 
find solace in Him, and rest in His will. Mean- 
time, hope is His gift, and as He judges not as 
men judge, let us hope largely for the eternal 
rest of those who pass before us, beyond the 
veil.” 

“That does not satisfy me. My only comfort 
is to pray for him, to feel that I am somehow in 
communion with him, and can help him, if — if 
— such prayers as mine can be heard in heaven,” 
she exclaimed, wringing her pale hands. 

The pastor had many arguments against such 
things as this. Where had she, one of his own 
flock, got such a heresy into her head as a belief 
in purgatory — a downright “Romish” belief? 
He could have told her a great deal that was be- 
lieved by his Church about a place called Para- 
dise, which was held to be the intermediate 


28 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


abode of the departed, and many other things 
besides; but he did not think she was in a condi- 
tion cf mind to be harassed with arguments, so 
he only knelt down and read some of the prayers 
for those under trial, and asking God’s blessing 
upon her when he finished, took leave, fearing 
in his own mind that the shock she had sus- 
tained had unsettled Mrs. Morley’s mind. 

’Beth’s youth, and the elasticity of her nature, 
joined to the fact that she had never seen very 
much of her father, he having been on sea-service 
ever since she could remember, coming home 
for a short time every three or four years, al- 
though she loved him tenderly, prevented her 
from sufiering the sharp anguish that her mother 
endured. The cloud lay heavy upon her young 
life, however. The sense that she was left fath- 
erless was one of bitter loss, while her mother’s 
grief was so absorbing that she felt shut out from 
the old warm place in her heart. 

“vShe just looks at me, and speaks to me, as 
she does to anybody else. Oh, Aunt ’Beth, do 
you think she will ever love me again?” cried 
’Beth, throwing herself in a passion of tears upon 
the breast of her aunt. Miss Morley, who had 
arrived that morning. She had come from her 
own beautiful home in the hop-growing region 
of New York; packed up and left everything, as 
soon as she got Captain Brandt’s letter informing 
her of her nephew’s death; had come full of 
kindly, loving thoughts for the bereaved ones, 


’bkth’s promisk. 


29 


sorrowing herself, yet putting self aside to do 
all she could to comfort them, and hoping to 
take them back with her, if she could prevail 
upon them to go. 

Miss Elizabeth Morley was a small, spare, 
alert woman, a little past middle age, with keen 
blue eyes, gray hair which hung in three short 
curls over each temple, a somewhat frosty nose 
but well shaped, and a white, sound set of teeth, 
which sometimes, on occasion, she had a way of 
snapping together like castanets; she was clear- 
headed and brusque, with a pleasant voice ol 
very decided and incisive tones. 

“Eove you!” she answered. “Of course she 
will. This won’t last. It would be contrary to 
human nature. By-and-by, when time blunts 
her grief a little, she’ll open her arms to you, 
my poor baby. ’ ’ 

“When? How soon. Aunt ’Beth? Do you 
think by next week?” 

“No: nor by next month. You must be 
patient, my dear, and wait; that is woman’s life, 
to wait, and by-and-by the mother-love that has 
been beaten down by this dreadful blow will lift 
up its head and open its blossoms again, and you 
will have it all back, ‘ full measure, pressed to- 
gether, and running over.’ ” 

“Oh, Aunty ’Beth, if I thought so, I would 
wait so patiently! Are you sure, though ?” 

“As sure as that I am living,” answered Aunt 
’Beth, as, drawing the tear-stained %ce to her 
own, she kissed it tenderly. 


30 


’betii’s promise. 


Aunt ’ Beth, strong, active and practical, looked 
quietly and keenly about her, and soon discov- 
ered how she could be most useful. Putting her 
own sorrow out of sight, she brought things to 
order without fuss, or offence to Mrs. Moiiey’s 
old servants. Jealousy is a failing of their class; 
they hate what they call “meddling,” even 
though it be the mildest suggestion, or the most 
indulgent show of authority exercised by one 
when the master or mistress of the house is, 
from some cause or other, unable to see after 
their own affairs; but Aunt ’Beth was one of 
those fortunate beings who are endowed with a 
masterful spirit. She had what New England 
folks call “faculty;” she always seemed to know 
exactly what to do, and she did it with a will. 
And now when she gave directions about this or 
that, they were so clear, simple, and methodical, 
that her right, or authority, was never ques- 
tioned. The poor creatures, who had grown old 
in the service of the family, felt the sorrow that 
had so suddenly come upon it with that emo- 
tional grief which is a peculiarity of their race; 
consequently, ever since the sad news had ar- 
rived, things had been going at ‘ sixes and sev- 
ens.’ But now, with Aunt ’Beth to the fore, 
they felt the same kind of relief that a ship’s 
crew might whose captain had by some casualty 
of the tempest lost his life, leaving them, with- 
out guide or compass, to drift to destruction, 
should some one appear to take his place and 


’bktii’s promise. 


31 


guide them into port. Everything was brought 
into perfect order; and ’Beth, who was much 
with her aunt, was learning lessons of practical 
use. “She couldn’t,” thought Aunt ’Beth, “be 
diverted from brooding over her sorrows in a 
better way than by learning to be useful.” Cap- 
tain Brandt and his amiable wife came daily to 
see Mrs. Morley ; they were the only persons she 
saw except Mr. and Mrs. Haller, who were evi- 
dently discouraged in their attempts to impart 
consolation to one who seemed to reject all so- 
lace, and devoted herself only to vain regrets. 
Crowds of friends called daily to inquire, leaving 
messages, flowers, and notes of condolence for 
Mrs. Morley and ’Beth, among them Mrs. Secre- 
tary Ashton and the Misses Ashton, whose cards 
Andrew put into his pocket, out of sight. It 
did his old heart good to see such attentions, and 
when the President himself and the General of 
the army called, making the kindest inquiries as 
to Mrs. Morley’ s health, and leaving cards of 
condolence, he felt somewhat more reconciled; 
for with his race the “pomp of woe” smooths 
the rugged edges of the sharpest griefs. 

Captain Brandt came one evening to tell Aunt 
’Beth that Captain Morley’ s chests and other 
effects had arrived, and ask her what he should do. 

“Send them here, captain, of course; there’s 
nothing else to be done. It’s a new trial to face, ’ ’ 
— her voice and lip quivered. “Whenever his 
chests had come before, he was with them. But 


32 


’bkth’s promise. 


I will tell Anne; God only knows how she’ll 
stand it; possibly it may rouse her to a more 
natural sort of condition. She takes no interest 
in anything; she answers if she is spoken to, 
and looks all the time as white and motionless 
as stone, or as if she were dreaming. And she 
doesn’t sleep, and positively refuses narcotics.” 

“You’re right, MissMorley; she’ll go ‘melan- 
choly mad’ if this continues, and perhaps, as 
you say, the sight of poor Morley’s things will 
set her to crying and screaming as other women 
do when they’re in trouble. I wish I could help 
you; if I can, send Andrew right off for me,” 
said Captain Brandt, rising to go. 

But they were both mistaken. Aunt ’Beth 
went upstairs, and sat down beside Mrs. Morley, 
and, taking her hand, began smoothing it gently 
between both her own. ‘ ‘ How do you feel ? is 
the room comfortable? Your fingers are very 
cold,” she said. 

“I am very well, and I do not feel cold,” she 
answered gently. 

“Anne, Captain Brandt has just been here to 
tell me that poor Arthur’s chests and things have 
arrived,” said Aunt ’Beth. “Shall you wish to 
see them, or what?” 

But Mrs. Morley closed her eyes; a spasm of 
anguish ran shuddering through her from head 
to foot, and she did not speak. Aunt ’Beth 
waited in tearful silence, her eyes fixed with 
tender pity on the white woebegone face. 


’beth’s promise. 33 

‘‘Anne, my child, I must know your wishes,” 
she said at last, speaking very gently. 

“Are you here yet. Aunt ’Beth? How patient 
every one is with me! I heard what you said, 
and you don’t know how everything that has 
happened rose up before me all at once, when I 
thought of his not coming^ that he would never 
come again. Senseless things, worthless by com- 
parison. Oh! the jealous anger I feel that they 
should be brought back safe to the home he will 
never enter again. Put them all somewhere out 
of sight, Annt ’Beth. The hall room upstairs 
will be a good place — perhaps some day ’Beth 
may like to see her father’s things.” 

“I will do as you wish, Anne; but do, do try 
and bear up! Indeed, my child, this will never 
do; you must have courage, ’’ .spoke Aunt ’Beth. 

“You don’t know,” was the low-ton-ed reply; 
“you mean well, but you don’t know.” 

Aunt ’Beth was on the eve of saying, “Don’t 
know what?” but she held her tongue; leaning 
over, she kissed Mrs. Morley’s pale forehead, and 
went out of the room, closing the door very 
gently. She and ’Beth talked affairs over, and 
did each her best to comfort the other. 

The sea-chests came the next day and were 
taken up to the room named by Mrs. Morley; 
Aunt ’Beth shut herself in with them, and Cap- 
tain Brandt having sent her the keys, she pro- 
ceeded to examine and arrange their contents in 
her usual methodical way. The battle-worn 


34 


’bkth's promise;. 


tmiform, discolored by the smoke of cannon; his 
clothing, his full-dress uniform, his sword, his 
papers, all the pretty curiosities and presents he 
had collected for his wife and ’ Beth at the ports 
his ship had visited, were sprinkled with tears 
as Miss Morley assorted them, folding and re- 
folding everything, making separate packages 
of letters and journals, wrapping fine linen tow- 
els around the delicate fabrics he had got for 
dresses, and laying each article just where it 
could be found without confusion. In one of the 
boxes she found his battle-flag. This she folded 
up, intending to take it to her own room, know- 
ing that later on it would be needed. The best 
part of two days were thus occupied, an inven- 
tory made, and the battered sea-chests were re- 
locked, "and the door closed upon them. There 
was only one thing she did not return — a pearl 
locket and heavy gold chain which he had 
bought in Havana — which he had intended, as 
written upon the box with his own hand, for a 
“Christmas gift for my dear daughter, ’Beth.” 

“She shall have it as he meant,” said Aunt 
’Beth to herself, “but I will wait until all is 
over, before I give it to her.” And it was hid- 
den away in the recesses of her trunk. 

The last duty was the most trying of all to 
Aunt ’Beth, but she remained to attend to it. 
Captain Morley’ s remains arrived soon after win- 
ter set in, and by Captain Brandt’s advice they 
were deposited in Mr. Haller’s church, instead 


’beth’s promise. 


35 


of being brought to the house. Mrs. Morley in- 
sisted on visiting them, and with her daughter 
and Aunt ’Beth, all clad in the deepest mourning, 
they drove to the church, where they remained 
until near midnight, feeling in all its bitterness 
that unutterable sense of grief, the deep desola- 
lation of ‘‘being so near yet so far apart,” that 
no response of look or word, but only silence, 
can come to the aching heart. 

The Requiem was sung, the burial service was 
read, and under the old trees of Oak Hill Ceme- 
tery the brave sailor was laid to rest. All that 
could be done had been arranged to honor his 
memory on that sad occasion: the newspapers 
were filled with eulogy of his heroic career, the 
Navy Department was draped in mourning, and 
an order issued directing officers to wear crape 
on their arms for thirty days. The President and 
the higher officers of the Government, officers 
of the army and navy, and hundreds of private 
citizens, reverently followed the casket, which 
was draped with the torn battle-flag of the dead 
hero, his sword, now sheathed forever, resting 
upon its smoke-stained folds. A shield of white 
flowers, on which was written in violets the 
words: “I die, but the ship is saved,” was upon 
the casket, its only floral ornament. It was 
lowered into the grave, the earth was shovelled 
in, and all was over. Mrs. Morley was borne 
fainting to her carriage, and Aunt ’Beth held her 
on her breast until they got home. She made no 


36 


’beth’s promise. 


moan when consciousness returned; a gasping 
sob, now and then, without tears, and a face as 
white as marble, attested her woe. She answered 
when spoken to, but otherwise kept silence. 

“What shall I do? What can I do?” thought 
Aunt ’Beth wringing her hands. “Why canH 
she grieve as other women do? She must have 
a cup of hot tea. ” She brought the tea herself — 
a hot, steaming, fragrant cup — the only panacea 
that can be thought of when everything else 
fails — and Mrs. Morley tried to drink it; but she 
had difficulty in swallowing it, and Aunt ’Beth 
took it away. The minister and Dr. Miller were 
down stairs, but she declined seeing them. 

“I must fight it out alone. Aunt ’Beth; they 
can’t help me. I thank them for all their kind- 
ness. My sin has found me out, ’ ’ she moaned as 
Miss Morley left the room, “and who shall com- 
fort me?” 


'beth’s promise. 


37 


CHAPTER TIL 

AUNT ’bETH makes UP HER MIND. 

“It will never do to let her go on in this 
way,” said Aunt ’Beth to herself, one night after 
she had left Mrs. Morley’s room, where she had 
been doing her best to awaken in her some inter- 
est in the affairs of life, things that required at- 
tention, and involved pecuniary loss and no end 
of disagreeable complications if neglected — but 
all in vain. She listened to all Aunt ’Beth said, 
but it was with benumbed faculties; she ex- 
pressed no wish, no opinion; her white face did 
not relax its rigid expression, nor her eyes their 
heavy, woebegone look. 

“I ^<9 wish you would say something, Anne; 
you can’t live on like this, you know,” Aunt 
’Beth blurted out. 

“Oh, Aunt ’Beth! don’t, don’t! you hurt me!” 
she cried, in such piteous accents, that Aunt 
’Beth drew her head to her bosom and held it 
there, fondling with gentlest touches her fore- 
head and cheek, while her tears sprinkled the 
once beautiful tresses, which within a few weeks 
had shown many a white thread. Then kissing 
her “good-night,” she sought her own room, 
feeling a strange mixture of grief and anger at 


38 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


the unreasonableness of any human being’s giv- 
ing away so utterly to an event which no earthly 
power could change, when the business of life 
demanded the exercise of every energy. Miss 
Morley did not look at the matter from a Chris- 
tian point of view; she had never professed to be 
religious, she had never been even baptized; in 
fact she gave herself no concern about questions 
which, as she curtly expressed it, only set people 
by the ears, and made them think every one was 
going wrong except themselves. She was will- 
ing they should fight it out between themselves, 
but made up her mind to attend to the duties 
devolving upon her through providence or chance 
— she did not inquire which — to do what good 
she could to others, and, in short, to live a 
useful, common-sense, unselfish life; judging 
none, and allowing no one to force their doc- 
trines, their uncharitableness, or bickerings upon 
her. She used to say sometimes: “If I under- 
took to be a Christian like some I know, I should 
grow fanatical and lose what little human kind- 
ness there is in my nature. I believe in God, 
and thank Him for all His mercies; that is 
enough; and when I die He will know that i have 
done the best I could.” With such sentiments 
of belief. Miss Morley took a very common-sense 
view of her niece’s inordinate sorrow, and was 
convinced that she only required the will to 
arouse herself from the apathy she was in, to be 
able to do it; and she felt it to be her duty to be- 


’bkth’s promise. 


39 


gin with a tonic form of treatment which would 
literally set her on her feet again. “Too much 
sympathy, and too much giving up to her,’’ 
thought Aunt ’Beth, “is injudicious and ciuel. 
It will never do, and she must and shall shake 
it off for the sake of my poor little ’Beth, whom 
she seems to have forgotten, and who is breaking 
her heart over it Bless my soul! I loved Ar- 
thur — dear, noble fellow! — I brought him up, 
and loved him as if he had been my own son. I 
was proud of him — ^yes, he was very near to me 
— and his death has hurt me sorely, too; and if I 
were to give myself time to brood over it I should 
cry my eyes out ’ ’ ; and here she buried her face 
in her hands, and wept bitterly for several min- 
utes. “But what would' be the good of it?” she 
added, wiping her eyes. ‘ ‘ Did the greatest grief 
ever known bring back the dead? . I must do all 
that I think my brave boy would best like to be 
done, — that is, while I stay here, for I must be 
hurrying home very soon now. All my winter 
arrangements are at a stand-still; in fact, there’s 
nothing done; servants all idle, through not 
knowing how to manage; but that might all go 
to the mischief if Anne would only be natural.” 
Then Aunt ’Beth prepared with her usual energy 
for bed, but after putting out her light she 
dropped upon the rug before the fire, now smoul- 
dering redly among the white ashes, and em- 
bracing her knees, leaned her forehead upon 
them, remaining so motionless that one would 


40 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


have supposed she was asleep, but she was nevei 
more wide awake in her life. 

“I’ll do it! she will think it cruel, no doubt, 
but she will live to thank me for it, I know, ’ ’ she 
said, getting up and plunging into bed, where, 
having settled herself upon her pillow, she added: 

“I’ll tell her in plain words what I think is her 
duty 1” 

Aunt ’Beth meant all that she said; and, the 
next day, after the domestic affairs of the house 
were wound up like a clock to running order, 
when all outside calls and messages had been 
attended to, and ’Beth sent out to walk, she 
went into Mrs. Morley’s room, seated herself op- 
posite to her, asked her how she felt, and how 
she had passed the night, and if she had eaten 
her breakfast. “She was well,” she said, “but 
had not slept much, and could eat nothing.” 

“I suppose you know, Anne, that if you go on 
in this way you’ll simply kill yourself,” said 
Aunt ’Beth, in a firm, hard voice. “It is not 
grief, but suicide, and not at all what poor Ar- 
thur — could he speak to us from where he is — 
would wish. Here are his affairs, which to be 
neglected would dishonor his memory; and his 
child, who is breaking her heart because you 
have put her aside — ’ ’ 

“Oh, Aunt ’Beth, don’t! don’t! I can’t bear it!” 

“Yes, you can, and must, Anne. All of us 
can bear more than we think, if we only try. 
You must throw off this morbid grief; it is not 


beth’s promise. 


41 


a true or right sort of grief; it is more like pagan 
despair. You must rouse yourself for the sake 
of your child, who is fretting herself into typhoid 
fever — the doctor says so.” 

‘‘Is ’Beth ill?” she asked hurriedly. 

“She will be, if you don’t let her come in to 
you, and let her see that you feel some interest 
in her existence. I awoke the other night, and 
hearing a strange sound in her room, I went in, 
and there she was lying upon the floor, as cold 
as death, and sobbing as if her heart would break. 
I brought her into my bed and held her in my 
arms, doing all I could to comfort her; but it is 
you, Anne — yott^ her mother — that she wants, 
and must have, or she’ll die.” 

“Oh, Aunt ’Beth, can it be that she grieves 
so sorely?” 

“Yes: just think of it — a young thing like her, 
who has been as happy as a lark all her life, to 
lose father and mother at one blow!” 

“Oh, no! only one! How can you be so un- 
kind, and say such things to me?” 

' ‘I am only telling you the truth, Anne. Your 
husband used to call you a brave woman: be 
brave now for the love of him. You must grieve 
for him — it is only natural; but for God’s sake, be 
rational. I must go home next week — I am 
needed there; but how can I leave you in this 
condition, and ’Beth desolate and pining for her 
mother’s breast to lay her poor head upon?” 

Mrs. Morley rose from her chair, and walked 


42 


’bkth’s promise. 


up and down the room. “That,” thought Aunt 
’Beth, watching her while she pretended to knit, 
“that is a good beginning.” 

At last she stopped, and stood before her, her 
pale hands clasped and her face wrung with an- 
guish: “Aunt ’Beth, I thought you loved my 
husband ! ’ ’ she cried. 

“Ivoved him! I fairly idolized him, Anne. 
Didn’t I bring him up from the cradle? No 
mother ever loved her first-born as I loved him ; 
and if I gave way to my sorrow, I should not 
cease my moan day or night,” cried Aunt ’Beth, 
in trembling tones. “But life is too short, Anne, 
too crowded with duties to the living, for me to 
waste it by nursing my grief. I’ll do my duty, 
as he did, and when death comes it shall find me, 
as it did him, with his work accomplished — my 
hero! my boy!” 

Aunt ’Beth covered her face with her hands, 
tears gushed through her fingers, and her form 
shook with emotion. Nature demands and will 
have compensation, when her laws given for the 
relief of human beings are violated; and this good 
pagan, who imagined that by her strong will she 
could overcome all mundane weakness, felt all 
the better for this spontaneous outburst of a 
really deep-seated sorrow. Mrs. Morley knelt by 
her side, folded her arms about her, and leaning 
her head upon her breast, whispered: “Aunt 
’Beth, let me love you; let me share /iis place in 
your heart. Grief is selfish ; but such a loss, such 


’bkth’s promisk. 


43 


a giief as mine! coining like a bolt out of a clear 
sky, crushing me so suddenly as it did, 1 find 
very hard to bear. But I’ll try; I’ll try, dear 
Aunt ’Beth. I don’t know if I can, but I will 
make the effort to rouse myself, and take up my 
life-work again; but don’t, don’t leave me; for 
how can I do it alone! You do not know — ah! 
Aunt ’Beth! my soul, my very soitl^ cries out for 
help.” 

‘ ‘ Anne, my love, I cannot give you any com- 
fort about religious matters; my ideas, you know, 
are peculiar, and while they satisfy me, would 
be no solace to you. Send for Mr. Haller — lay 
open your heart to him ; he knows all about the 
doctrines that people pin their faith to, and find 
consolation in. I think Mr. Haller’s a good 
man, and is really in earnest in all that he 
teaches,” answered Miss Morley. 

‘‘He has been very kind, but he cannot help 
me, Aunt ’Beth; my need is far beyond any- 
thing that Mr. Haller can do. But don’t leave 
me,” said Mrs. Morley. 

“I shall have to go; but why not come with 
me, you and ’Beth?” 

“No, that is impossible now; later, perhaps, 
she and I will come. ’ ’ 

“I hope so. Now, I’m going to send you a 
nice lunch, and ’Beth shall bring it; I heard her 
come in just now; and, my dear, you will see 
that in trying to comfort her — even just a little 
at first — you’ll find comfort for your own aching 
heart,” 


44 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


“ Slie is right,” said Mrs. Morley, with a moan 
which bespoke the anquish of her heart; “but 
how little indeed does she understand the bitter 
sting that makes my sorrow so unendurable! that 
it is the consolations of that faith which I so 
weakly and sinfully abandoned, that I now, in 
the hour of supreme sorrow, crave and hunger 
for! Alas! alas! what is there to save me from 
despair in this bitter hour!” 

She had resolved, and she determined to make 
an effort to shake off the morbid lethargy of grief 
from which Aunt ’Beth had partially aroused 
her. It would give her heart a great wrench to 
bury her woe, and come back to the ways of life; 
dead to the world, she was nearer to him she 
mourned ; living among its petty concerns again 
would remove them farther and farther apart. 
Oh, that she might go on grieving and grieving, 
satisfying her sorrow until death released her, 
and reunited her with her lost love! Such were 
the outcries of her poor, undisciplined heart; but 
she had promised to “try;” and, hurt her as it 
might, she would keep her word. All these 
thoughts were rushing through her brain when, 
raising her eyes, she caught sight of her dishev- 
elled hair, the dark purple rings under her eyes, 
and her pallid, woe-begone face, in a mirror op- 
posite her. It was the ghost of herself that she 
saw, and she gazed upon it as upon the face of a 
stranger. She turned away, bathed her eyes, and 
smoothed her hair, thinking of ’Beth, and how it 


BETH’S PROMISE- 


45 


would pain her if she found her looking like that, 
not knowing that she had looked thus for many 
days. 

’Beth came in timidly with the tra}', placing 
it upon the table. “ Mamma! ” she said, gently, 
“I prepared your lunch myself; I even made the 
chocolate with my own hands; won’t you please 
try and eat just a little ? ” 

“Thank you, my child,” said Mrs. Morley, 
folding, her arms about her, and kissing her. ‘ ‘ It 
seems so long since we have been together; draw 
that tabouret here and sit by me while I try to 
eat.” And ’Beth, leaning upon her mother’s 
knee, taken to her heart once more, was filled 
with a serene consciousness of peace, almost of 
gladness. But she was afraid she might weary 
her if she remained too long, and not be per- 
mitted to come in,^Sn; and^eeing that she had 
finished her lunch, she gathered the things to- 
gether to take them away, when Mrs. Morley 
drew her face down and kissed her, telling her 
to come in whenever she wished. 

“That will be always, dear mamma! We 
have never been parted before, you know,” an- 
swered ’Beth, with quivering lip. 

“ Tet it be always, then, ’Beth. We will not 
be parted again so long as we both live.” 

“Oh, mamma! how happy you make me!” 
she exclaimed, as leaning over she kissed her 
mother’s head. Then she ran down to tell the 
good news to Aunt ’Beth, who felt comforted. 


46 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


“There’s nothing,” she thought, “after all, like 
plain, practical common sense.” 

After that, Mrs. Morley, who was neither in- 
tellectually weak nor naturally deficient in will 
and energy, took up once more the burden of 
life, determined to endure her sorrow, and, like 
her brave husband, fulfil her duties as strength 
might be given her. No more wild outcries of 
anguish must burst from her heart; there must 
be no more speechless woe, or benumbed inac- 
tivity; her husband used to call her “brave,” 
and for his sake she would collect all her powers 
to be so. 

But, alas! alas! while nerves, muscles, and 
brain, while every faculty may be brought under 
discipline, where shall help be found for the poor 
heart, which under its mask is eating itself 
away, stung to death by its secret pain? On 
earth? No! Earth has no balm of healing foi 
such wounds, and if help is not sought of God, 
if He touches them not with His divine chrisms, 
there is left for it only despair. Like the pre- 
cious sandal-wood tree, the faithful heart when 
wounded almost beyond human endurance gives 
back the sweet aroma of resignation and trust, 
for every blow, as when 

** the generous wood 

Perfumes with its own sweets the cruel blade:*’ 

and He who pities His suffering ones as a “father 
pitieth his children,” gives healing and peace, 


bkth's promisk. 


47 


treasuring up, for the day of eternal compensa- 
tion, every pang that has been patiently endured 
for the love of Him, and turning their grief into 
songs of rejoicing, while He crowns them with 
everlasting recompense. 

But this afflicted woman had forfeited, by her 
own faithlessness and almost apostasy, all claim 
to the consolations which she so much needed ; 
she had by her long neglect of those Divine Sac- 
raments, which would have given her supernat- 
ural strength, “trampled them,” as it were, 
“under her feet.” She had, by making her 
faith of so small account, caused her husband to 
be satisfied with his own errors of belief, and in- 
different to religion generally; and last of all, 
had shut out from the one true fold her innocent 
child, who, now grown to womanhood, had no 
knowledge of the religion, to which she — at 
least by Baptism — belonged. Is it any wonder 
that grief, stung by remorse like this, should be 
unendurable? Is it any wonder that “out of the 
depths” her soul lifted its despairing cry for 
help, or that she shrank with terror from seeking 
reconciliation with that holy faith she had so 
many years ago betrayed ? 


48 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER IV. 
retrospection. 

Aunt ’Beth had, in her quaint positive way, 
done a good work in awakening Mrs. Morley 
from the morbid state she was in, to the actual 
duties of life; although it was slow work coming 
back to them, owing to the sense of her twofold 
loss ever present with her. An unblest cross is 
a heavy load to carry, but when the stings and 
reproaches of conscience are added to it, who 
can sustain the burden ? 

One day, when searching through her work- 
box — an elaborate, elegant affair, that her hus- 
band had, in their early married life, sent her 
from China — for a certain receipt Aunt ’Beth 
had called for, Mrs. Morley opened one of its 
several small compartments and saw within it a 
small twisted package of tissue paper, evidently 
containing a ring or locket, as the outline of 
whatever it was had impressed itself on the 
wrapping. She started, and drew back the hand 
stretched out to take it up, whispering, “I dare 
not.” Then, suddenly, another impulse moved 
her— “But it is said,” she murmured, “that the 
worst of sinners never asked her help in vain. 
O clement, O sweet Mother of Jesus! abandon 


’betii’s promise. 


49 


me not in the end, as I have abandoned thee!’’ 
She opened the parcel she had placed there 
years before. It was a medal of the Blessed 
Virgin, attached to a silken cord. How well she 
remembered the night when, dressing for a ball, 
she had taken it off and hidden it away heie, to 
make place for a jewelled necklace! She had 
put it away carefully; she had even pressed it to 
her lips before putting it out of sight — and 
there it had lain ever since. She looked at this 
symbol, this link between the days of her strong, 
trusting faith, and the dark, hopeless present; 
she held it for a moment in her folded hands, 
pressed closely against her heart, then slipped 
the cord over her head, and once more the blest 
image of “Our Lady conceived without sin” 
rested upon her bosom. Not that vshe had any 
definite purpose or pious resolve in view in doing 
so; it was an instinct, as one might grasp at 
something long lost, and suddenly cast up by 
the waves at their feet. But the involuntary 
cry of her heart had gone forth; and she to 
whom it was addressed, listened, watchful and 
waiting, ready to stretch out her pitying hand, 
to save the soul her Son had redeemed from the 
wreck made by its own faithlessness. But, after 
all. her own will, her own act, must win back 
the graces she had cast from her. 

It is a thought full of tremendous meaning, 
that no human being can be saved without the 
consent of his own will. 


50 


’beth's promise. 


“Have you found that paper, Anne?” said 
Aunt ’Beth, coming in, in a flurry. 

* “Not yet. Aunt ’Beth; perhaps, if you will be 
so kind ” 

“Certainly, Anne. Push the box round! 
You never found anything you started to look 
for in your life,” answered Aunt’ Beth, snapping 
her white teeth, little imagining how Mrs. Mor- 
leyhad been occupied; or that she had forgotten, 
as she really had, all about the receipt she had 
opened her box to hunt for. 

“Thank goodness! here it is,” exclaimed the 
energetic little woman, holding up the paper, 
after turning everything topsy-turvy. “All 
right! you’re as good at hiding things as a mag- 
pie. It will do you good, my dear, to put that 
box to rights; only, try and remember where 
you place things, to save trouble” ; and Aunt 
’Beth whisked out as abruptly as she had en- 
tered, leaving Mrs. Morley occupied for the next 
hour, secretly delighted to know that it would in- 
terest her sufficiently to prevent her brooding 
over her griefs for a little while at least. 

And now, while a degree of calmness has be- 
gun to reign over the afflicted household, and 
things have resumed something of their old rou- 
tine; when the gloom of the rooms is dispelled 
by throwing open the shutters to the sunlight, 
and a few intimate friends are admitted, and 
’Beth has got back to her old place in her 
mother’s heart, who begins to need and depend 


’bkth’s promise. 


5 ^ 


upon her more and more every day, and each 
one is helping to bear the other’s burden, we 
will leave them, for a brief retrospection of their 
previous history, explanatory of certain things 
not yet quite clear to the reader. 

Mrs. Morley was the only daughter of Colonel 
and Mrs. Hamilton, natives of Maryland, and both 
of them devout members of that one true Faith 
which they had inherited from a long line of 
Catholic ancestors. Col. Hamilton was an only 
child. His father Francis Hamilton belonged 
to one of the old Catholic pilgrim families of 
lower Maryland, his wife and himself were de- 
vout observers of the pious practices of their 
faith, and instilled into the mind of their son, 
from his earliest years, its divine teachings, both 
by their example and precept. He was an officer 
of the regular army, who had only his pay for a 
support, but this, with economy — as he had no 
expensive vices — was sufficient for every moder- 
ate need. He had expectations, however, which 
he had good sense enough not to rely upon, as it 
was entirely adverse to his principles ‘Ho wait 
for dead people’s shoes,” although his step- 
mother — from whom these expectations came 
— had publicly announced that he was to in- 
herit her fortune; in fact, she had made a will 
to that effect. She was a worldly, kind- 
hearted, narrow-minded woman, who imagined 
that New England was the pivot on which 
the world revolved, and Boston the Olympus of 


52 


’beth’s promise. 


the modern gods, whose nod was glory or de-i 
struction to aspiring mortals. She met Mr. 
Hamilton at Newport, one summer, whither he 
had gone for his health a few years after his 
wife’s death, and after a few months of agreeable 
intercourse they were married, the only condi- 
tion she insisted on being that he would spend 
the rest of his life in New England, where her 
elegant home was located, and her money in- 
vested. His being a Catholic did not in the least 
disturb her, as she had no fixed religious ideas 
of her own; and, altogether, he was made quite 
happy and comfortable by her wifely devotion 
and the luxuries with which she surrounded him. 
The first time his son, now a handsome, manly 
lad of fourteen, came home from the old college 
in Maryland to spend the vacation, Mrs. Hamil- 
ton took him at once into high favor, and treated 
him with so much affection and kindness that he 
was not only grateful, but came to the conclu- 
sion that all he had ever heard about the tradi- 
tionary step-mother was simply slander, and after 
a little while he grew to have quite an affection 
for her. There was one point of difference be- 
tween them, however. She wanted him to 
change his college and go to Harvard, but he 
was very decided not to do so, as his heart clung 
to the old Catholic alma mater up there in the 
hill-country of Maryland, which had not only 
been the nursing-mother of faith and learning, 
but also of many faithful priests and Bishops^ 


'beth’s promise. 


53 


and Archbishops, whose names and livres reflect 
a glory on the American hierarchy. The boy 
loved his Faith, and not for the world would he 
have gone among aliens who despised it. Mrs. 
Hamilton showed no displeasure, although she 
regretted his determination, because, as she told 
him, ‘‘he would have surer prospects of a bril- 
liant career if educated at Hafvard, than at the 
obscure college he preferred;” she gave him a 
check for fifty dollars, kissed him affectionately, 
and bade him write often and let her know when- 
ever he wanted anything; waited to see him off 
on the train, then drove home to comfort her 
husband, who had become suddenly possessed of 
a shadowy idea that he and his boy would never 
meet again. The rigors of a New England cli- 
mate proved too severe for Mr. Hamilton’s deli- 
cate lungs, and before the winter was half gone, 
an acute attack of pneumonia terminated his life 
so suddenly that there was not time for his son 
to reach him before he breathed his last. He re- 
ceived the last Sacraments from a devoted priest 
of apostolic life, who had been his spiritual guide 
from the time he settled in New England to the 
hour of his death. Hugh arrived only in time to 
attend his father’s funeral, deeply grieved by his 
loss, as may be imagined. After the sad cere- 
monies were over, Mrs. Hamilton again offered 
her step-son every inducement not only to change 
his college, but to take his place in her home as 
her son and heir. Again he gratefully thanked 


54 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


her for all her goodness and kind attention, and 
told her that he had determined upon his career: 
that as soon as he graduated, which would be 
soon, he was going to West Point, an old friend 
of his father’s in the United States Senate having 
promised him an appointment. She told him, 
knowing it was no use to argue with him, that 
he was the most obstinate youngster she had 
ever met, and she did not know but that she re- 
spected him the more for being so independent. 
There was another kindly parting; more money 
and gifts were pressed upon him, and he went 
away with a saddened heart, feeling in its very 
depths that since his father was dead he had no 
claim to any earthly home. Time passed. He 
graduated with honor from his college, after- 
wards at West Point, and received his commis- 
sion, by virtue of the high number he had passed, 
as a lieutenant in the engineer corps, that being 
considered the highest and most desirable branch 
of the service. Mrs. Hamilton was very proud 
of the noble-looking young soldier; she had him 
fitted out with the handsomest and most expen- 
sive equipments that could be procured, and took 
him home with her to spend part of the usual fur- 
lough after graduation, where she jHed and ex- 
hibited him, and saw him caressed and courted 
to her heart’s content. Her next ambitions plan 
for him was a splendid marriage with an accom- 
plished and beautiful young lady, a daughter of 
one of the merchant princes of Boston, who had 


’bkth’s promise. 


55 


shown open admiration for him. “Such a mar- 
riage,” she thought, “will give him prestige; his 
place in society will be assured, and with such 
a companion he’ll get some of his rusty Popish 
ideas taken out of him.” But again were Mrs. 
Hamilton’s good intentions for her step-son to be 
frustrated: he told her frankly that he was en- 
gaged to a fair young girl in Maryland, whom he 
had known ever since she was born, and whom 
he intended to marry within the year; that she 
was not rich, neither showy nor dashing, but that 
she was a pious Catholic, lovely in her character, 
intelligent and accomplished, and he hoped that 
when he brought his bride to see her, she would 
approve of his choice. It was too late to argue 
with him — the affair had gone too far, and she 
was really too fond of him to quarrel over it; so 
she made the best of it, and when Hugh went 
away to spend the rest of his leave with his be- 
trothed, Mrs. Hamilton wrote her an affectionate 
womanly letter, and sent her by him a costly 
present. “I cannot give him up, though he has 
thwarted me in every way; I love him as if he 
were my own son, and I cannot afford to lose 
him.” 

Years, into which a world of changes had 
come, passed by. Hugh Hamilton married the 
fair object of his choice, and the union proved all 
that he had hoped for. Two sons and a daughter 
were born to them, and he had won promotion 
by signal acts of bravery in several outbreak? 


56 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


among the Indians on the western frontier. Sel- 
dom separated from his family after this, being 
stationed at posts where he could have them with 
him, his greatest pleasure was found in watching 
over and directing the mental and religious edu- 
tion of his children, a work to which Mrs. Ham- 
ilton had faithfully devoted herself, not allowing 
even the extreme delicacy of her health to inter- 
fere with or interrupt it. But the exigencies of 
the service interrupted once more this happy 
domestic intercourse; the Seminole war broke 
out, and Major Hamilton was ordered to the field 
with his regiment, where his bravery and military 
skill won for him special mention in the de- 
spatches sent to the War Department by his 
commanding General. Seeking only to do his 
duty, loving his profession with a noble enthusi- 
asm, and brave by nature, he was not conscious 
of having done anything worthy of special notice 
in the dangerous and savage warfare in which he 
had been engaged, and it was a surprise to him, 
as well as a proud satisfaction, when among 
other promotions he received his own. Colonel 
now, he returned home without ‘ ‘ scratch or scar, ’ ’ 
to resume his happy family relations, and was 
more than pleased to find that he was assigned 
to command at Fort McHenry, near Baltimore; 
for there, near at hand, in that almost Catholic 
city, were all the advantages that he desired: 
church. Catholic schools for his children, and re- 
ligious privileges for them — all of which we may 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


57 


be sure they devoutly availed themselves of. The 
brave soldier was a true knight of the Blessed 
Virgin; he wore her medal, and recited the rosary 
daily, and ever commended himself and his dear 
ones to her loving care. Sometimes, when occa- 
sion had offered at the mess-table or in the mid- 
night bivouac^ when the gay young officers sought 
to while away the tedious hours of waiting, by 
jest, song, and story, bringing in her sacred 
name in ribald speeches, mocking and sneering 
at her holy virginity, he defended her cause with 
such eloquence and dignity that these frivolous 
spirits, who were ignorant of her great holiness 
and her high claims to the veneration of man- 
kind, were ever after silent on this theme, at 
least in his presence. “What,” said they, “if 
he does hold the Virgin Mary’s honor as 
sacred as that of his mother and wife? It’s his 
belief, and none of our business. We would not 
speak lightly of them, and we’ve no right to 
speak lightly of her. Gad! I don’t believe he’d 
ask much to fight for her!” 

“They do sometimes,” said another. “Count 
D’Orsay challenged an officer at a mess dinner in 
France who spoke disrespectfully of the Virgin, 
and they fought a duel with small swords, and 
his antagonist fell. When D’Orsay was dying, 
he pointed to that sword which hung over his 
bed under a picture of the Virgin, and told the 
old Capuchin who was with him that it was his 
proudest trophy, for with it he had defended her 
honoi.” 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


58 


‘‘Hamilton’s another sort of a man from 
D’Orsay : he’s what I call a Christian gentleman, 
though, it is true, I know very little about such 
matters; I can only see that he seems to live up 
to his belief,” answered a third, to which the 
rest agreed. This is but one instance of how the 
influence of the brave Christian soldier was felt, 
even by the unbelieving and thoughtless. 

Col. Hamilton’s boys were now twelve and 
fourteen, and Anne — the Mrs. Morley of our 
story — ten years of age. Frank and Harry were 
handsome, well-grown lads, and bade fair to walk 
in their father’s footsteps. They required no 
urging to practice their religious duties, seeing 
his example, and having instilled into their 
minds from their earliest recollection the most 
pious sentiments and principles. Their intellec- 
tual advancement was beyond their years, and 
their parents had good reason to look forward to 
a bright and successful future for them. Anne, 
the youngest, was a fair, sunny-haired, tripping 
little fairy, the pet of the household, and as full 
of life and joy as a lark is of song, thinking that 
the world was bounded by the love that sur- 
rounded her. “I wonder sometimes if we are 
not spoiling Anne,” said Col. Hamilton one 
night after the nurse had taken the child away; 
“she’s a vain little elf.” 

“I’m afraid she is,” said Mrs. Hamilton, 
gently. “But what I fear for her is an incon- 
stancy of will, traits of which I have noticed 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


59 


frequently in her little plays, for ‘straws show 
which way the wind blows, ’ and she is fond of 
finery beyond measure. It is all very amusing 
7tow^ but I’m afraid it bodes trouble in the future 
for my pretty darling. ’ ’ 

“We must do all we can without violence: 
she is under the protection of our Blessed Lady 
— in fact, consecrated to her; then she is so very 
young, that you will be able to give her mind 
and heart the right direction, with God’s help,” 
he replied. 

“Mamma Hamilton makes such a pet of her 
whenever she pays us a visit, and gives her so 
many beautiful presents, as to quite turn her 
little head for the time. It is ‘ Bonne Mere says 
I am to have this,’ and ^ Bonne Mere says I looks 
boo’ful in that,’ and ^ Bonne Mere says I’m her 
own dear pitty baby,’ all the time; and indeed 
she is so kind to us all, Hugh, that I cannot find 
heart to say a word. ’ ’ 

“Yes, she is very kind and generous. But 
Anne has you to watch over her; and I think, 
dear, you’ll be able to counteract all dangerous 
influences. Who in the world, though, taught 
the children to call her Bonne Mere? Grand- 
mamma^ is good English, and sounds better for 
American children.” 

“She did,” said Mrs. Hamilton, laughing; 
“she has bribed and drilled them into it when- 
ever she has visited us; and I really didn’t mind, 
it seemed to give her such pleasure.” 


6o 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


“When is she coming again?” 

“I can’t tell. Not, I hope, until after the boys 
ai e confirmed ; she would give them no end of 
distractions, without meaning the least harm on 
earth. ’ ’ 

“That makes it no better for them; the result 
is all the same as if her intentions were bad, ’ ’ 
said Col. Hamilton, with a sigh. 

How little did they know what was coming ! 
they had not even felt a vague shadow of the 
cloud that was approaching to break up once 
more their peaceful home, and separate them, 
this time forever. Rumors of war with Mexico 
filled the papers the next day, and in a short 
time hostilities actually commenced. Mrs. Ham- 
ilton’s heart grew sick with expectation and 
dread, and there was almost silence in the house, 
usually so full of merry voices and pleasant 
sounds; but several weeks having passed without 
a sign from the War Department, she began to 
‘ hake heart of grace, ’ ’ that, after all her fears, her 
husband would not be ordered to join the army 
then on its way to Mexico. She said the rosary 
every evening with her children, that this trial 
might be averted; every breath, almost, was a 
prayer that he might remain with them. But 
one day his orderly brought him at the breakfast- 
table a large, ominous official envelope, which 
contained orders for him to join his regiment, 
and, without delay, unite with General Scott’s 
army in Mexico. His noble face grew pale and 


bkth’s promise. 


6l 


his lips rigid; but only for an instant Crowd- 
ing back into his own brave heart the pain that 
he felt in the separation from all that was most 
dear to him on earth, he imparted the news to 
his wife and children; reminding them that he 
was a soldier, and that to remain in inglorious 
ease at such a time would be a dishonor. He 
then fortified his courage by receiving the ador- 
able Sacrament of the Altar, and put on a cheer- 
ful front. When the time came, after having 
seen them pleasantly situated in a house near the 
Cathedral in Baltimore, he embraced them ten- 
derly, commending them to the protection of 
Heaven; and pausing on his way only long 
enough to collect his regiment together from the 
various posts to which portions of it had been 
assigned, he made his way as rapidly as possible 
to the army in Mexico. He reported at head- 
quarters, and was immediately ordered to the 
front with his men. One or two severe battles 
followed, in which the enemy was — after fighting 
desperately — repulsed and routed. Hundreds of 
gallant privates, many brave officers of the 
United States Army fell, but Scott was marching 
towards the capital; he must hold the proud city 
of the Montezumas in his victorious grasp to 
m.ake his conquest complete, so what mattered a 
few more lives, and rivers of blood, with such an 
object in view? Col. Hamilton, as usual, dis- 
tinguished himself, and was so far unhurt. At 
length a day dawned on which another terrible 


62 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


battle was to be fought, the battle of Cheriibusco. 
Knowing the frightful chances of war, and with 
a feeling that was almost a presentiment. Col. 
Hamilton went to the tent of the army chap- 
lain, a venerable and devout Jesuit Father, and, 
waiting his opportunity — for since before mid- 
night he had been up hearing confessions, and 
there was still a crowd waiting — he approached 
the tribunal of penance, and afterwards, with 
many other faithful souls, received the Bread of 
Life, received it with humble intention as his 
viaticum. Returning to his tent, he wrote an af- 
fectionate and consoling letter to his wife and 
children, and one to his step-mother, thanking 
her for all her kindness, and begging her for his 
sake to investigate and seek the true Faith; 
penned a tender adieu, then sealed and left them 
on his desk, with directions for their delivery in 
case he fell. 

He had scarcely swallowed some hot coffee and 
eaten a biscuit when the bugle rang out the sig- 
nal ‘‘to arms”; and ere the sun was fairly risen 
over that beautiful tropical land, glorious with 
the richest blooms, a fierce assault on the Mexi- 
can lines filled the air with clouds of smoke, the 
thunder of artillery, and all the deadly sounds 
of tumult and dread that make the bravest heart 
quail when a battle rages. In storming a re- 
doubt — the enemy’s last defence — Col. Hamil- 
ton fell, shot through the head, just as his men 
gained the works, driving the enemy, in rout 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


63 


and confusion, into wild flight. Did he hear 
their shout of victory? What then to him were 
the illusive glories of the earth, its fame, or its 
honors? He was crowned with other and eter- 
nal rewards. 


64 


BETH'S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE YOUNG HAMIUTONS. 

Mrs. Hamilton, always fragile, and threat- 
ened for years with consumption, felt the shock 
so severely, that though she bore her cross with 
calm jesignation, the disease so long dreaded 
rapidly developed itself, and after a few months 
of severe suffering, it was evident that she was 
sinking. Many and sad misgivings disturbed 
the mind of the dying mother as to the future 
temporal and spiritual welfare of her helpless 
and orphaned children — all of them at that im- 
pressionable and critical age, when youth most 
needs a steady and judicious influence to guide 
and control them. They had no near relatives, 
and the small fortune that she could leave would 
be barely sufficient to educate and support them. 
She could only commend them to the care of 
Almighty God, trusting in His promises, and 
with devout faith implore for them the protec- 
tion of “Our Blessed Lady of Perpetual Help.’’ 
Bonne Mere Hamilton, as she was now known in 
the family, had hastened to them, filled with the 
kindest intentions, as soon as the sad news of 
her step-son’s death and his farewell letter 
reached her. Her grief, her unfeigned sym- 


’beth’s promise. 


65 


pathy, and her efforts to be of use^ were all of 
that fussy sort, far from tranquillizing to the 
poor invalid; but the well-meaning motive made 
her patient. As the end approached, both were 
conscious that words must be spoken which 
could not be left unsaid; and one night, after the 
Sacrament of Extreme Unction and the holy 
Viaticum had been administered to the dying 
one, who, as is often the case, rallied and seemed 
stronger than she had been for some days, Mrs. 
Hamilton told her of her wish to adopt the chil- 
dren, promising in the most solemn manner not 
only to be a mother to them, but never in any 
way to interfere with their religious faith, or 
practice, or seek to influence their belief. 

‘‘You will be kind to them, I know; you will 
make them happy; but. Mamma Hamilton, their 
souls are above all price: better they should be 
beggars than lose their faith,” she said, faintly, 
clasping her crucifix to her heart. 

“They need not lose their faith, nor be beggars 
either, my dear child. I will do as I have prom- 
ised, ‘so help me God!’ ” answered Mrs. Hamil- 
ton, meaning all that she said. 

“May He deal with you as you deal with 
them,” came the low, failing voice. “Take 
them ; be a mother in deed by trying to become 
one in Faith with them, as he^ speaking, as it 
were, from the grave, besought you to do.” 
Then closing her eyes, she lay so quiet and calm 
that Mrs. Hamilton thought she was sleeping, 
3 


06 


beth’s promise. 


until the day dawned through the windows; then 
she saw the white, still change, which meant 
death and eternal freedom from human pangs. 

Mrs. Hamilton meant to keep her promise, 
and devote herself henceforth to her step-son’s 
children; they should be as her very own, and 
inherit her money when she died. But what 
were their best interests? How could she bring 
up these souls in the doctrines of their holy 
Faith? — she who had no settled ideas of faith, 
who was an unbeliever in revealed religion as 
taught by Jesus Christ who founded it; who had 
but one idea, viz., that all were to be saved— the 
wicked as well as the good — because, if there 
was a God, He would not condemn to eternal 
punishments those He created, let their sins be 
what they might! A Catholic would have known 
at once what the best interests of these children 
meant. With neither mind nor judgment ma- 
tured, at an age when impressions are most in- 
delibly printed on the soft clay of their nature, 
whether for good or evil. Catholic schools and 
Catholic influences, with all their safeguards of 
Faith and practice, were what they needed above 
all. But Mrs. Hamilton, without the faintest 
idea that her plans for them would be the very 
course to undermine their faith, thought only of 
a brilliant future for them, and determined after 
the first six months of mourning had passed, to 
send the boys to Harvard, and Anne when, a 
year older, to a fashionable French boarding- 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


67 


school in New York. Remaining in Baltimore 
until Col. Hamilton’s affairs were all settled and 
placed under safe guardianship, and a beautiful 
and expensive monument was erected to the 
memory of himself and his wife in Greenmount 
Cemetery, she returned, accompanied by the al- 
most inconsolable children, to her elegant home 
in one of the most picturesque nooks among the 
Berkshire hills, where the novelty of their sur- 
roundings, their delightful drives, the boating 
on a romantic lake near by in the valley, the 
trout-fishing and various other amusements, be- 
gan to divert their minds from constantly brood- 
ing over their great loss. It was not Mrs. Hamil- 
ton’s fault that there was not a Catholic church 
within fifty miles; she would have been glad had 
there been for their sakes; but she told them to 
read their prayers as they had been taught, until 
they should come to her elegant home in Boston, 
where ‘Hhey could go to church every day if 
they wished.” She invited two or three bright 
young persons of their own age — boys and girls, 
full of fun and frolic — to spend a few weeks with 
them; she loaded them with presents, provided 
all sorts of amusements she could think of to in- 
terest them, until they began to think that the 
world was a much happier place than they had 
ever dreamed of; and their sorrowful and de- 
jected memories began to fade away in the new 
brightness that had come into their lives. When 
the first snow fell, Mrs. Hamilton moved bet 


68 


beth’s promise* 


family to Boston; and once more Frank and 
Harry, with their sister, attended Mass. The 
coachman, who was an Irish Catholic, always ac- 
companied them to and from the church; and 
the boys, being old enough, received the Sacra- 
ments. It was a poor, dim, miserable edifice, so 
unlike the spacious cathedral and elegant 
churches of Baltimore that the boys, who were 
very observant, noticed the contrast, and also 
that the devout congregation that filled it seemed 
to belong to the laboring class; but when the 
candles were lit upon the altar, when the soft 
strains of the organ stole upon the ear, when the 
acolytes and the priest entered, and the Holy 
Sacrifice began, these Catholic children felt 
themselves at home; their hearts pulsed with 
happiness, and their minds were filled with ten- 
der memories of those loved and lost, for whose 
repose they prayed. Never had they felt so near 
them since they died as now; it was like home 
to be there, and they were more than comforted. 
Mrs. Hamilton did not relish their going among 
“all those low people,” as she styled them, but 
there was no help for it; she had inquired, and 
learned that the two other Catholic churches had 
the same sort of congregations; it was the New 
Bethlehem — this Athens of America — wh ere 
Jesus deigned to dwell in lowly abodes, and be 
worshipped and tended by the poor, and the sim- 
ple of heart. She was glad to see ‘ ‘ her children, ’ ’ 
as she called them, happy and — true to her word — 


’bktii's promise. 


69 

interposed no obstacle to tlieir going to IMass and 
Vespers. iVfter Christmas they were to be sent 
away to school, and she did not know exactly 
what difficulties they might have to encounter 
then, therefore they should be free to go as often 
and whenever they pleased to their church, the 
only proviso being that Patrick was to be always 
in attendance, a thing he did not very much rel- 
ish, and therefore usually went to sleep; for al- 
though he would have fought and died for his 
Faith if necessary, his practice of its sacred pre- 
cepts was of that kind which barely saved him 
from excommunication. 

The boys, and especially Anne, with her fair 
silken curls and her great brown eyes, loved the 
Bonne Mere very much; she was always think- 
ing of their comfort and amusement, and never 
let their purses go empty, and on Christmas day 
unveiled for the first time large three-quarter 
length portraits of their father and mother, 
which she had been at great trouble and expense 
to have painted by a first-class artist, who made 
it a specialty to get faithful likenesses from pho- 
tographs of persons he had never seen. Col. 
Hamilton’s was wreathed with laurel, that of 
his gentle wife with violets. How could they 
help loving her more than ever now, since she 
had brought them almost living, and breathing, 
back to them? They embraced and thanked 
her, and wept upon her bosom, wandering how 
they could ever repay all her kindness. 


70 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


The day came at lavSt when Bonne Mere took 
them to school, the two lads to Harvard, and 
Anne to the celebrated and fashionable French 
boarding-school of Madame de Villiers, where 
the intellectual and aesthetic faculties of the 
oupils were cultivated as if it were the end and 
aim of their creation ; where they were superfi- 
cially crammed with the ’onomies and the ’olo- 
gies, and the ’isteries; where they were drilled 
in the accomplishments, and polished and in- 
structed in worldly usages and the arts of social 
success, to prepare them for a debut into fashion- 
able life with an eclat which would reflect credit 
upon th-e establishment from which they emerged. 
But at Harvard, and at Madame De Villiers’, 
Mrs. Hamilton stated that her children were 
Catholics, and must be allowed to attend their 
own Church — to which no objection was offered, 
and during the first year they did so quite regu- 
larly, though under petty difficulties of one sort or 
another. At last vacation came, and they went 
back with Bonne Mere to the beautiful old 
home among the Berkshire hills, where they 
knew that unlimited delights awaited them. 
Thoughts of those who would never brighten 
their home-life again; sweet, tender memories, 
sometimes made them thoughtful and sad, and 
it was their habit, in accordance with a promise 
made to their dying mother, to find time every 
day, generally at twilight, to say the rosary. 
Bonne Mere Hamilton observed that they eithei 


’bkth’s promise. 


71 


slipped off by themselves, or remained very 
quiet about this time every evening, and at last 
discovered what it meant by a conversation she 
accidentally overheard between the boys, one of 
whom reminded the other that they had not yet 
said their beads, and that some frolic that was 
a foot must wait until they did. “ It is too bad,” 
thought she, ‘‘for children full of life and frolic 
as these are, to be hampered and made gloomy 
by such superstitions; but I’ll try and make 
it up to them, poor things.” And so she 
did in her own good-natured way. She bought 
a pretty phaeton, and a sure-footed, handsome 
pony for Anne; she changed her black dresses, 
and crape hats and trimmings, for the most 
beautiful white and daintily shaded organ- 
dies, made up by her own French dressmaker; 
and jaunty hats, decorated with graceful plumes, 
or humming-birds and flowers, with gay sashes 
and everything to correspond, which could pos- 
sibly awaken a passion for dress in a young heart 
naturally vain. The boys had each their own 
pony, and with their boat and picnics and nu- 
merous other sports, their time was happily, and 
apparently harmlessly, fllled up. But time that 
leaves no tithes for God’s service, cannot be 
harmlessly filled up; and this was the case with 
these Catholic children, removed from all the 
sacred influences of their faith, and constantly 
diverted from the very thought of it by pleasures 
and excitements that left no room for reflection. 


72 


’beth’s promise. 


At first, they used to read their Mass-prayers oa 
Sundays and holidays of obligation, whenever 
they could do so uninterruptedly; but the house 
was full of young company now, and there were 
such constant demands upon them that they had 
scarcely a minute to spare; and gradually, think- 
ing they could not help themselves, they grew so 
indifferent about it that they scarcely knew 
when Sunday came, so much alike were all the 
days in that jolly pagan household. We say this 
under our breath, for Bonne Mere Hamilton fan- 
cied herself a very good, rational Christian, and 
would have resented any doubt expressed to the 
contrary. She thought, moreover, that she had 
fulfilled in good faith the promises she had so 
solemnly made to the dying mother when she 
committed her children to her care, and took 
great credit to herself for her liberality in not 
opposing their going to Mass when their church 
was within reach, and in making it a condition 
at the schools where she had placed them, that 
they were to be allowed the same privilege. 
What did she know of the vital principles of the 
Catholic religion, of its importance above all 
earthly things? Literally nothing. She be- 
lieved that one religion was as good as another, 
and that no special form of faith or creed was 
necessary to salvation. There are thousands 
like her in this enlightened land of ours; where 
then is the wonder that materialism and infidelity 
grow apace, with nursing mothers like these? 


^BETH’S PROMISE. 


73 


Conscience was not always silent, however, in 
the hearts of the young Hainiltons. Sometimes 
after the lights were extinguished, and they 
were in bed, with no external sound to distract 
their attention, ‘‘the still small voice’’ would be 
heard reproaching them for their neglect, re- 
minding them of the example of their parents, 
and their Christian training; then, filled with 
compunction, they would shed bitter tears, say 
the rosary, resolve to do better, and fall asleep, 
to awake only to another merry, hilarious day. 
Their surroundings were too much for untried 
minds like theirs, and in their better moments 
they could only hope that a time would come 
when it would be convenient for them to practice 
their religion. 

Years passed by. Harry and Frank Hamil- 
ton graduated creditably at Harvard, and at their 
earnest desire, appointments were procured for 
Harry to the West Point Military School, and 
for Frank to the Naval Academy. Each of them 
passed through the usual course with honor to 
themselves, received their commissions, and 
were assigned to duty — Frank to a ship on the 
North Atlantic Station, Harry to a regiment in 
the far West. Bo7ine Mere Hamilton felt a 
proud satisfaction in having educated them ac- 
cording to their station, and given them every 
enjoyment within the range of her means and 
ability, and above all, that they had grown up 
without any of those prim, starched ideas which 


74 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


would have made them think they were too good 
for the world they lived in. They had steadily 
through these years called themselves Catholics, 
and never failed to make at least an Easter Com- 
munion; otherwise their religion sat lightly on 
,heir shoulders, and they were known among 
classmates and comrades as being liberal in their 
belief. 

Anne had grown to be a rarely beautiful wo- 
man; highly accomplished, and quite finished in 
all those well-bred, polished ways, which go so 
far towards social success. She had not yet 
made her debut^ and Mrs. Hamilton thought it 
would be of the highest advantage to her to go 
abroad for a year. The idea was a delightful 
one to Anne, who had often heard her school- 
mates that had been to Europe speak of the de- 
lights of Paris and other famed cities, and ob- 
served that it gave them a certain prestige quite 
unattainable by those who had not been so for- 
tunate. Their preparations were made, and 
Mrs. Hamilton, although she loved her old home 
among the Berkshire hills, and felt a pang at 
leaving it, went away with Anne, and her two 
servants, toward the lands she had never ex- 
pected to see. They had a prosperous voyage 
across, and things went well with them after 
their arrival. Friends to whom they had letters, 
showed them every attention. Bankers to whom 
they had letters of credit, facilitated their move- 
ments by every means in their power; the very 


’beth’s promise. 


75 


weather was in their favor, and the season was 
known as one of the most delightful that had 
been experienced for years. 

We have no idea of describing their tour, and 
its various delights. The beauty of the young 
American girl, and the wealth and dignity of 
her chaperone^ attracted admiration and respect 
everywhere: never in her whole life had Mrs. 
Hamilton felt so supremely happy and satisfied 
with herself and all the world. After spending 
the summer in the Swiss and Austrian Tyrol, 
Mrs. Hamilton determined to winter in Naples, 
where she had friends in the American colony 
resident there. Shortly after they had settled 
in their delightful quarters, an American man- 
of-war arrived, and the officers were the recip- 
ients of many attentions from their fair country- 
women, who gave entertainments and made 
everything pleasant for them. Then a ball was 
given by the officers on the flag-ship, which sur- 
passed anything of the kind ever known there 
before. Royal and noble guests accepted the 
hospitalities of the admiral and his officers, and 
mingled good-naturedly and without formality 
with the Americans present, which was highly 
flattering to their republican hearts. Mrs. Ham- 
ilton was led in to supper by a Duke, who was 
attracted by the beauty and grace of her protege^ 
and desired an introduction, littie imagining how 
easy a thing it would have been, without all 
that conventional circumlocution; for American 


76 


’beth’s promise. 


girls, thinking no harm, and accustomed to the 
chivalry of the men at home, never dream of 
giving social offence by little friendly freedoms 
of manner, things absolutely insignificant in 
themselves, but which out there in the Old 
World are considered disreputable. Mrs. Ham- 
ilton was in a state of exalted bliss, and when 
she turned to present her grand-daughter to his 
highness, she discovered that she had slipped 
away, and was engaged in an animated chat 
with an American officer to whom she had been 
introduced, and whom she had met at several 
entertainments in Naples — a Lieutenant Morley, 
who had one of those grand figures and noble 
faces that always command admiration wherever 
seen, and who had about him none of that fop- 
pishness, affectation, or littleness, too often ex- 
hibited by handsome men. Mrs. Hamilton saw 
at a glance the delicate flush of pleasure on 
Anne’s face, and the brightening of her eyes, as 
she listened to the agreeable things that Lieut. 
Morley was saying to her with such a deferential, 
graceful air. She could not catch her eye — she 
could not call her — it would not do to send for 
her — and Anne saw presently, to her great de- 
light, Bonne Mere being led back to the ball- 
room in great state by her royal friend. That 
night, after they got home, Anne received a lec- 
ture on the proprieties and etiquette ruling good 
society abroad, which she was told she must be 
v^ery careful to observe, unless she wished to be 


’bKTH’S PROMISE). 


77 


entirely excluded from it. Then Bonne Mere 
kissed her and went to bed, where she dreamed 
of princes and dukes, and lords and ladies the 
live-long night; and Anne, of Lieut. Morley. 

It was whispered all through the American 
colony, that Lieut. Morley was paying his ad- 
dresses to Miss Hamilton, which report had more 
truth in it than rumors of this sort usually have, 
and every one’s curiosity was gratified in a few 
weeks by the announcement that they were 
really engaged. Mrs. Hamilton had seen it all, 
and, though she made no remark, she quietly 
and prudently set to work to learn all she could 
about Lieut. Morley’ s antecedents and family. 
Fortunately this was not difficult, as Admiral 
Irwin, an old friend of the Morleys, was able to 
give her all the information that she required, 
which was, that Lieut Morley belonged to a good 
family of northern New York, that his record 
was without stain, his standing in the service 
excellent, and his means independent of his pay. 
Therefore, when he formally proposed for Anne’s 
hand, Bomte Mere had no reasonable objection 
to interpose, except that she thought ‘she was 
too young to assume the duties and responsi- 
bilities of married life, and, having seen so little 
of the world, she was afraid that she did not 
know her own mind. Besides, did he know 
that Anne was a Roman Catholic? and was he 
aware that if children were born of this marriage, 
they would have to be brought up Catholics? 


78 


’bkth’s promise;. 


Bonne Merc was sublime in carrying out to the 
last, her promise to look after the religious in- 
terests of her children, and she imagined that 
she was doing it in this case. But another mo- 
tive, which she scarcely acknowledged, mingled 
strongly with her intention: she had ambitious 
designs for Anne ; she had hoped to see her mar- 
ried to a serene highness, or, at the very least, 
to a coronet — and not unreasonably, for the fail 
young American had made a great sensation by 
her rare beauty and accomplishments, in addition 
to which it was understood that there would be 
generous ‘ ‘ settlements ’ ’ if she married to please 
Mrs. Hamilton, to whom it now occurred that 
Lieut. Morley might possibly object to the con- 
ditions she had named, and the match might, 
after all, be broken off ; but she was mistaken. 

“ Yes, ’ ’ he replied, ‘ ‘ I knew she was a Catholic. 
She told me so at first. I belong to no creed 
myself, and am, therefore, quite willing to sub- 
scribe to any conditions required by hers. Be 
assured that her happiness will be too precious 
to interfere with a principle so vitally necessary 
to it. ’ ’ 

Then Mrs. Hamilton, knowing Anne’s senti- 
ments towards her lover — she having confessed 
her preference when questioned — gave her con- 
sent, not too graciously, to the marriage. “I 
must confess,” she said afterwards, in confi- 
dence, to a friend, “the affair is not altogether 
agreeable to me. I do not like those amphibious 


’bkth’s promise. 


79 


creatures!” — • meaning navy ofEcers. “Why 
could not the child fall in love with a civilian, 
if she must fall in love at all ? There was that 
Roman Count, the most romantic-looking crea- 
ture I ever saw, with a pedigree as long as my 
arm, and old palaces and things. Then, too, he 
was a Catholic, like herself, but she only laughed 
at him, and said he looked like a bandit I was 
so provoked! Then there was that handsome 
young Englishman, and he a lord; and that 
splendid fellow from Boston, worth millions, one 
of the best matches in the United States ! But 
there is no use in fretting: it is fate, I suppose, 
and I shall have to make the best of it. ’ ’ 

Here in this Catholic land, Anne Hamilton at- 
tended Mass regularly at one or another of the 
grand old churches; it was good form to do so, 
her foreign friends and associates — people of rank 
and fashion — ^were all Catholics, and it gave her 
a certain prestige which she unconsciously en- 
joyed, to be known as an American Catholic. 
Frequenting these ancient basilicas and cathe- 
drals, where the altars were like thrones — where 
the light, rich and subdued, streamed through 
storied windows, only shadowed by banners, 
whose gorgeous blazonry, tarnished by time, and 
sprinkled with the dust of centuries, told of con- 
quest and glory ; where clouds of incense wreathed 
themselves about columns of rare marble, whose 
wonderful carving was wrought by the cunning 
fingers of the masters of art, and half- veiled the 


8o 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


marvellous pictures in which the triumphs of 
Christ and His martyrs, and the tender, touching 
mysteries of His holy Mother, were delineated 
with such perfect skill as to thrill the very souls 
of those who gazed upon them ; where the mellow 
organ breathed such strains that it would not 
have been impossible to fancy they were floating 
out of heaven; where the glimmer of hundreds 
of waxen tapers made a halo to crown the spot 
where the ‘‘King of kings” ofiered Himself an 
unbloody oblation in the Divine Sacrifice of the 
Altar, for the salvation of His creatures; it is not 
strange that the earliest and best associations of 
Anne Hamilton’s life were revived, that the 
memory of her mother and the pious training 
she had received came thronging into her heart, 
filling it with emotions she had never experienced 
before. One day during Holy Week, when Mrs. 
Hamilton and a party of Americans and Eng- 
lish were going the round of the churches, to see 
what they called “the strange Catholic perform- 
ances,” they entered one less celebrated than 
others they had visited, in which the ceremonies 
had taken place at an earlier hour, and from 
which the crowds that had thronged it had surged 
away, leaving only a few devout groups around 
the confessionals and before the shrines of the 
Virgin and the Saints, who all seemed to be en- 
gaged in devout recollection and prayer. Even 
Mrs. Hamilton and her irreverent party were im- 
pressed by the solemnity and devout silence that 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


8l 


reigned; it was not agreeable to them to feel that 
indefinable sensation of awe, as of a Presence in- 
visible to them, which so many of those who are 
separated from the Faith experience on entering 
a Catholic church: and they sought to return as 
soon as possible into the sunshine and air. But 
something suddenly attracted Mrs. Hamilton’s 
notice, and she whispered to the others to go 
without her, as she was very much fatigued. 
“She’s suddenly struck,” they said, laughing, 
after they got out; “the next thing we know 
she’ll turn Papist, and the pious soul will think 
it a miracle due to the relics of the saints pre- 
served there. ’ ’ 

But Mrs. Hamilton, unfortunately, was not 
“struck” in that way. She had only seen a 
figure very like Anne’s enter one of the confes- 
sionals, and she determined to wait until she 
came out, to assure herself whether or not she 
had made a mistake. She had to wait for some 
time, and was beginning to feel very restive, 
when, hearing a slight stir, she turned her eyes 
towards the spot, and saw that it was indeed 
Anne, her countenance grave, and her eyes be- 
dewed with tears — those tears more precious in 
the sight of Heaven than the richest gems 
that earth holds — but she did not see Bo7i7te 
Mere^ and, approaching the shrine of “Our 
Lady of Dolors,” she knelt, and, bowing her 
head, she drew out a rosary and began to recite 
the vSorrowful Mysteries. “Well!” thought 


82 


bkth's promise. 


Mrs. Hamilton, “I had no idea she cared foi 
her religion like this! Vm sure her poor mother 
would be glad to know that I have brought her 
up to be a good Catholic. ’ ’ Laying this flatter- 
ing unction to her soul, the good lady rustled 
out, gave alms to an old beggar at the church 
door, and hurried away to join her friends at an 
elegant lunch at the house of one of them, to 
which she had been invited. 

“Excuse me for saying ‘good-night’ so early, 
Bonne Mere^'^^ said Anne Hamilton that evening. 

Mrs. Hamilton was expecting quite a number 
of friends to drop in, and knowing that Anne 
was the attraction which brought many of the 
younger and gayer ones thither, she looked up 
with a displeased countenance, and asked if she 
was not feeling well. 

‘ ‘ Perfectly well ; but I wish to be alone, and 
retire early this evening. I am going to the 
first Mass in the morning, and I’m afraid of 
over-sleeping myself if I sit up as late as usual.” 

“Anne Hamilton, do you intend to try and kill 
yourself, going out so early when you know the 
air is reeking with malaria? The next thing 
we know you’ll be down with Roman fever.” 

“Do not be alarmed, dear Bonne Mere: it is 
not the season for fevers yet. I have never made 
my First Communion, and shall do so in the 
morning,” the young girl answered, in a low, 
but very determined tone. 

' ‘ I thought all that was attended to at Madame 


betii’s promise. 


83 


De Villiers’. I gave them instructions to see 
that you were given time and opportunity to at- 
• tend your Church,” said Bonne Mere^ with dig- 
h: ty, so far was she from comprehending all that 
was required to instil into the minds of the 
young the true principles of faith and religion. 

‘‘Had I been a little older,” answered Anne, 
with confusion; “or had there been some one to 
have reminded me — but I blame no one, I should 
have remembered all that I had been taught by 
my mother! But I was thoughtless, and, at last, 
indifferent. Now I am going to do better. Kiss 
me good-night. Bonne Merey 

“And what am I to say to Lieut. Morley? 
he’ll be here with the rest, presently,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton, kissing the fair young face bent down 
to hers. 

“Excuse me to him; he’ll understand,” she 
replied, as she hastened out of the drawing-room 
to avoid some guest whom she heard coming up 
the marble stairs. 

Whenever Mrs. Hamilton’s friends alluded, as 
they sometimes did, to the strangeness of her 
grand-daughter’s being a Catholic, her reply was: 
“Oh, yes, Anne is a Roman Catholic, of course. 
I had her brothers and herself brought up in 
that religion because their father and mother 
were Catholics, and I promised them to do so.” 
And Mrs. Hamilton believed what she said. She 
imagined that because she had not persecuted or 
been unkind to them, and had made it a condi- 


84 


’bkth’s promise. 


tion with those who had charge of their educa 
tion, that they were to attend their own Church, 
she had done all that was incumbent upon her 
in their regard, and quite plumed herself on her 
liberality. To be complimented on this point, 
as she frequently was, gave her the highest sat- 
isfaction. Occasionally, some of her high-toned 
Puritanical friends ventured to expostulate with 
her, and disapprove of her having allowed the 
children to grow up in such an erroneous and 
idolatrous belief as the Romanists taught, in- 
stead of having them trained in the doctrines of 
Calvin, to be simple Bible Christians! It made 
Bonne Mere wince a little, but she was generally 
sufficient for the emergency, and with something 
of the air of a martyr to circumstances, would 
answer: “It was not a matter o’f choice with 
me. The case was a peculiar one. But taking 
everything into consideration, I think it a good 
thing for Anne to have a religion of some sort, 
you kuow, for she’s young and very impulsive, 
and it will help to steady her now that she’s 
going to be married.” Then, thinking her more 
to be pitied than blamed, they held their peace. 

Lieut. Morley had written to his only living 
near relative at home — an aunt — informing her 
of his approaching marriage, and describing the 
object of his choice with all a lover’s enthu- 
siasm. After speaking of her family and posi- 
tion, a thing which he knew Miss Elizabeth 
Morley would deem it essential to be informed 


beth’s promise. 


85 


about, he added: “ She is a Roman Catholic, to 
which I do not in the least object; what right 
should I have to do so, professing no belief of 
any sort myself? I find her liberal in sentiment, 
and her religion seems to suit her, somehow; 
and it would be strange for her to be other than 
she is, she is so full of aesthetic tastes and fancies, 
which find ample gratification in a faith whose 
history and ceremonials are romance, poetry, 
splendor and mysticism combined.” This was 
the young fellow’s idea of the Catholic religion, 
and of what he understood as liberality of senti- 
ment on his own part. 

Trusting him with all the confiding faith of a 
first love, which could imagine no earthly danger 
ahead; proud of him in every sense, and not at 
all unwilling to be envied for her conquest of so 
noble a nature, Anne Hamilton was very happy — 
so entirely happy that she gave herself no con- 
cern about the elegant and costly trousseau Bonne 
Afere was having prepared for her, or the dia- 
monds and rare ornaments which were to form a 
portion of it. She valued a spray of wild flowers, 
or a cluster of field daisies gathered by her lover, 
beyond all the jewels in creation. He used to go 
with her every afternoon to one or another of the 
churches, to watch her while she told her beads 
— not knowing in the least the deep meaning of 
the devotion — to look down at her beautiful face 
slightly uplifted, with the light of the blessed 
tapers resting upon her golden hair like an au- 


86 


’beth’s promise. 


reole, while the soft tones of the organ rolled 
through the dim arches overhead, and the voices 
oi the choristers chanted the Litany of Loretto. 
“So she will look in heaven,’^ he used to think; 
‘ ‘ God forbid that I should ever interfere with a 
belief that appears to make her so happy.’’ 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


87 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE WEDDING. 

Anne Hamilton’s wedding-day rose fair and 
lovely over the beautiful Bay of Naples, its pic- 
turesque classic shores, and the old city, so fam- 
ous in song and stor}\ The golden light tinted 
the feathery plum^ of smoke that sprang grace- 
fully skyward irom the mysterious depths of Ve- 
suvius; the ruined temples of Paestum gleamed 
upon their lonely height among the olives and 
roses; isles, and grottoes, and scenes that seemed 
like dream-land — so thronged were they with the 
fables of antiquity — emerged from the soft pur- 
ple mists which night had thrown around them, 
kindling into new life and brightness as the sun- 
beams touched their dew-gemmed vines and 
flowers. Above all, the morning Angelus^ 
chiming in silvery tones, floated out from the 
campaniles of the convents and monasteries nest- 
ling among the wooded heights that skirted the 
bay, answering and blending with each other, 
until they filled the air like an anthem in honor 
of the holy Virgin and the wondrous incarnation 
of her divine Son. 

At her anchorage, throwing graceful shadows 
as she gently rocked upon the sparkling waves, 


88 


’beth’s promise. 


lay the old “Cumberland,” from whose peak 
floated the “Stars and Stripes” like a messen- 
ger of peace and hope from the New World to 
lands already hoary, and tottering with the 
weight and changes of centuries. Boats loaded 
with flowers directed their course towards her, 
and fragi'ant flowers of every hue, and garlands 
full of rich odors, and vines starred with white 
and golden blossoms, were trailed up her grim 
side by the peasants who had brought them, in 
overflowing wicker baskets and by the armful, 
while they chattered and laughed, making the 
air musical. Presently the sound of hammers 
disturbed the harmony of the scene, and carpen- 
ters were seen busily at work, erecting an arch 
on the quarter-deck of the old line-of-battle ship, 
which was wreathed with flowers and draped 
with flags. Then masts and rigging were made 
gay with bunting, and the spacious deck was 
carpeted with leaves and flowers. 

‘ ‘ A great festa ! ’ ’ said the peasants, as they 
lay upon their oars at a little distance, watching 
all that was going on. They had at first thought 
that an execution was at hand. 

“ Americans,” said one, “ love beautiful 
things; look at their flags! how gay!” 

“And look at the big black guns grinning 
there like teeth that know how to bite! — aha! ” 
said an old fellow who had scars upon him, and 
knew something. 

“They wonT bite to-day; and we’ll wait and 
see the end of it,” they answered, gayly. 


’beth’s promise. 


89 


The end of it was the wedding of Anne Ham- 
ilton and Tieut. Morley, about which the fash- 
ionable circles of society in Naples had been 
gossiping for weeks. They had wished to be 
married in the grand old Basilica which Anne 
usually attended, but this was impossible, as 
Lieut. Morley was not a Catholic; then it was 
ascertained that they could not even be married 
by a priest at their own apartments, because the 
ecclesiastical laws forbid the clergy to officiate 
at mixed marriages, when no dispensation has 
been given. Anne, being a Catholic herself, 
had not dreamed of such difficulties — in fact, she 
knew very little of her religion beyond the Sac- 
raments, and was deeply mortified; but she de- 
clared that she would be married only by one of 
her own clergy, even if the wedding had to be 
deferred until after her return to the United 
States, where the regulations on this point were 
not so strict. Then the question arose of Lieut. 
Morley’s being detached from his ship, his cruise 
not being up for two years. As hard as it was, 
he felt in honor bound to remain ; and even had 
he wished to be detached, he was too proud to 
ask favors of the Department at home. It was 
evident that the affair must be postponed, and 
quite a shadow settled over the usually gay 
household. The affianced pair tried to put a 
brave front on their disappointment, but they 
felt it none the less keenly. Mrs. Hamilton was 
furious; her plans were thrown into confusion 


90 


’bkth’s promise:. 


by what she called ‘‘an arbitrary act of Popish 
fanaticism,” after all the trouble and expense 
she had been at to make the wedding a distin- 
guished affair. The matter was discussed in 
every circle. The Americans and English were 
very bitter, and did not hesitate to ventilate 
their sentiments concerning the intolerant big- 
otry which had been exercised by the Catholic 
clergy on the occasion. On the other hand, the 
Neapolitans were nettled and indignant at the 
bitter and insulting speeches that were made 
against their holy faith by these strangers who 
knew nothing about it. In the midst of all this 
commotion and ill-feeling, an intimation was 
conveyed to Mrs. Hamilton from the highest ec- 
clesiastical authority in Naples, that “the exist- 
ing difficulties would be obviated if the marriage 
ceremony could be permitted to take place on 
board the American ship then in the harbor, 
that being foreign ground, over which the exist- 
ent ecclesiastical laws had no control; a priest 
would be permitted to perform the ceremony 
there as a civil rite^ but not as a Sacrament, as 
there was a difference of faith in the contracting 
parties. It was not unusual,” the message went 
on to explain, “in the United States, for a Cath- 
olic and Protestant to be married by a Catholic 
priest, but not in church. On their ship, they 
would be as it were at home — under their own 
flag, and the same custom might be observ^ed.”* 

* A laarriage under the same circumstances and difficul- 


’bkth’s promise. 


9 ^ 


Mrs. Hamilton returned a gracious answer, 
and proceeded to announce to all concerned the 
turn that affairs had taken. The idea was hailed 
Autli delight. Admiral Irwin cordially assented 
to the plan, and entered with zest into the ar- 
rangements, determined that on his part there 
should be nothing wanting that could give bril- 
liancy to the occasion. ^‘It shall be as grand,’’ 
he said, with nautical exuberance, “as when the 
Doge of Venice used to go out in the Bucentaur 
to wed the Adriatic.” 

As if to crown everything, a Southern Bishop 
from the United States, on his way to Rome, ar- 
rived at Naples, bringing letters to some of the 
people with whom the Hamiltons were intimate. 
He was, after being frankly informed by Lieut. 
Morley of everything that had happened, invited 
to perform the marriage ceremony; and having 
ascertained from the proper source that his doing 
so would involve no ecclesiastical censure, he 
willingly consented. An early day was ap- 
pointed, and invitations issued to attend the 
wedding of Miss Hamilton and Lieut. Morley on 
the United States flag-ship, the “Cumberland.” 
Every one immediately smoothed down theii 
ruffled feathers. Society, native and foreign, was 
delighted; such a sensation had never been 
known ; it was unique, novel and delightful. A 

ties took place a few years ago on board the flag-ship of the 
American squadron in the Mediterranean at a Catholic 
port. A. H. D. 


92 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


wedding on shipboard with flags flying, splendid 
music, and all the officers in full uniform — what 
could be more enchanting? And all to be fol- 
lowed by a magnificent entertainment at Mrs. 
Hamilton’s superb apartments! Mrs. Hamilton 
was in her element; what could be more distin- 
guished, after all, so out of the ordinary beaten 
track, as the whole affair — including the Amer- 
ican Bishop — would be? and she really felt almost 
reconciled to Anne’s marrying so far below her 
own ambitious expectations. The good lady 
had never been so supremely happy in all her 
life; she was delighted with everything and 
everybody around her. 

The wedding cortege came off* from shore in 
barges; the Admiral received the bride at the 
gangway, and led her, followed by Mrs. Hamil- 
ton and Tieut. Morley and the train of invited 
guests, towards the flag-draped, flower-decorated 
arch, under which the Bishop, in company with 
a priest, awaited them. The band of the “Cum- 
berland” filled the air with the music of the 
‘ ‘ Wedding March. ’ ’ Lieut. Morley received his 
bride — who looked very lovely in her rich, spot- 
less attire, her veil of rare lace just shading her 
fair countenance and falling in diaphanous folds 
to her very feet — received her from the admiral, 
and the ceremony began. It was very simple 
and brief; it. was not a solemn marriage, you 
know, therefore the more beautiful and impres- 
sive portions of the nuptial service were, as is 
usual under such circumstances, omitted. 


beth’s promise. 


93 


They both knelt when it was over, and the 
good Bishop blessed them. ‘‘It seems very like 
home here, under our old flag,” he said to them 
a moment afterwards. “ Be as faithful, my child, 
to your holy religion, as you are loyal to your na- 
tive land — and God will bless this union by the ~ 
conversion of your spouse, ’ ^ he added to Anne, 
aside. “Wear this in memory of to-day;” and 
he placed in her hand a small gold medal of 1 le 
Blessed Virgin, which she wore ever after until 
the night we have told of. All surrounded the 
newly-wedded pair with hearty congratulations; 
the band once more filled the air with triumphal 
strains, and every one would have gladly re- 
mained longer; but Mrs. Hamilton gave the signal 
to move, and the party left the ship, full of glee 
and merriment. A loud, irrepressible cheer arose 
from the sailors, who had provided themselves 
with flowers which they now showered down 
upon the bride until her barge was nearly full. 
Lieut. Morley stood up and waved his cap, and 
the ladies their handkerchiefs, until the barge 
shot out of range, leaving the sailors in the rig- 
ging, up which they had scampered to get the 
last view of a spectacle which had delighted 
them. The Admiral had ordered a double allow- 
ance of grog to be serv^ed out to them, in which 
to drink a health to their favorite officer and his 
bride, which increased their hilarity to the very 
verge of insubordination. The Admiral con- 
veyed the Bishop ashore in his own barge, the 


94 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


atteudant priest followed with the officer next in 
command, and the procession was closed by the 
officers of the “Cumberland” in full uniform, 
all of whom joined the wedding party at Mrs. 
Hamilton’s, where a magnificent entertainment 
awaited them, and where the rank and fashion 
of Naples, and its foreign society, were assem- 
bled. Mrs. Hamilton was complimented to her 
heart’s content, and was made more than happy 
by being told that every one said “it was the 
most beautiful and recherche affair ever seen in 
Naples,” meaning of course in private life, for 
the king, and other royalties, held court there 
with great magnificence. 

A month or so passed, and one day Lieutenant 
Morley received a letter from his aunt — to whom 
he had written describing the wedding, and ex- 
plaining why it had taken place on shipboard — 
in which she referred to it in brief and emphatic 
words: “I’d rather have had you married there, 
on American oak and under the American flag, 
than in the grandest cathedral of them all, by 
the Pope himself! ” But the truth is. Miss Mor- 
ley, not comprehending the matter from a Cath- 
olic standpoint, was deeply offended. She was 
firmly convinced that the clerical authorities out 
there were a benighted set, more given to “strain- 
ing at gnats ’ ’ than was good for them, and that 
it was an insult to the flag of his country not to 
allow a brave young American officer to be mar- 
ried in one of their old dingy cathedrals, to say 


^liKTll'S PROMISE. 


95 

nothing of his bride, who was not only an Amer- 
ican, but a Roman Catholic. But these were 
her private opinions, and snapping her fine white 
teeth upon them, she kept them to herself, hop- 
ing that the marriage would turn out happily. 
Miss Morley was not a religionist; she had never 
been baptized, and had seen so much bickering 
and uncharitableness among the various sects 
around her that she had no desire to be one. “If 
there’s a God,” she used to say to her nephew 
sometimes in their confidential talks, when he 
was at home for a short time, “He’s a God of 
Truth, and not of discord and lies. If He says 
one thing. He doesn’t mean another, as the va- 
rious sects make out among themselves. I shall 
steer clear of them all, my boy, and follow St. 
Paul’s advice; mind my own business, unless I 
can find a religion that seems to have a perfect 
and divine spirit to guide and govern it. I may 
never find it; if I don’t — well. I’ll do my work, 
and help my fellow-creatures all I can. I can do 
no more.” Again, she laid down her newspaper 
one day, after having read of certain difficulties 
and disputations between two of the leading de- 
nominations, in which the bitterest acrimony 
prevailed, and each charged the other with false 
doctrine; and taking off her spectacles, she 
wiped them carefully, sighed, and then after 
thinking it over a little while, she said: “They 
all think everybody wrong except themselves, 
and they’ve got Scripture to bolster up their difi 


’beth’s promise. 


96 

ferent beliefs out of the same Bible. I don’t 
know what to make of it, my boy; so I shall let 
them fight and scratch it out among themselves, 
without making myself miserable.” And this 
was Miss Morley’s creed, which she lived up to 
faithfully; she ‘‘gave her goods to the poor;” 
wherever there was calamity, destitution and 
sickness she spared neither herself nor her means 
— aye, she would have “given her very body to 
be burned, ” if by so doing she could have bene- 
fitted her fellow-creatures; but she was a stranger 
to that one true Faith which, through perfect 
charity, brings man as near to God as the angels 
themselves; a stranger to that higher motive 
which would have sanctified her good works, and 
given her soul all that it blindly desired. There 
are many scattered through our land like Miss 
Morley; people who are by nature noble and 
good, and possessed of virtues which many pro- 
fessing to be Christians are devoid of, but who 
by the errors of education and training, are far 
off from the truth as revealed by Almighty God 
through His Divine Son to the Church which 
He founded and established dirough all time, 
which holds one Faith, one Ford, one Baptism, 
and an infallible authority to teach and defend 
its doctrines; who are withheld from investiga- 
tion and a nearer approach to this only safe Fold 
by the belief that has been instilled into them 
from the dawn of their earliest reason, that it is 
a system worse than paganism itself, built up of 


’beth’s promise. 


97 


idolatry and priestcraft, of pomp and ceremony, 
which entrap and delude the weak and ignorant; 
and of learning and sophistry to dazzle and con- 
found the wiser and more intelligent. Hence, 
many outside the Church, looking upon it as 
Antichrist, while finding no rest in their own 
troubled waters, and longing for a safe port for 
their weary souls, never imagine that it is there, 
and only there, that what they seek is to be 
found. Sometimes by accidental association 
with Catholics, and by the grace of God, their 
eyes are opened; sometimes it happens — as our 
story shows — that Catholic children who, by the 
force of circumstances, are placed under the 
guardianship or influence of unbelievers, almost 
make shipwreck of their Faith, if not by direct 
means, by the ignorant indifference to their re- 
ligious interests of those having them in charge. 
Mrs. Hamilton did the best that could have been 
expected, and she believed firmly that she had 
done her whole duty to the children so solemnly 
committed to her care by their dying mother; 
and Mrs. Hamilton represents a large class in 
this country of untenable and contending beliefs. 

Lieutenant Morley, when the “Cumberland” 
went into winter quarters at Nice, got a month’s 
leave, and took his wife to Rome, where they 
explored together the wonders of art, and the 
crumbling relics of the past; nor did he hesitate 
to kneel with her in their audience with the 
Pope, to receive his blessing. Not even a dis- 
4 


98 


^BETH’S PROMISE. 


taut shadow appeared to threaten their happi- 
ness. Lieutenant Morley, ever mindful of the 
pledge he had given, sought neither by word, 
nor look, nor act to interfere with his wife’s 
religion; on the contrary he attended her to 
Mass, and to the very door of the confessional, 
and to the festival devotions which she some- 
times desired to take part in. He liked to see 
her devout — it was part of the pictured harmony 
around them, and he thought her never so lovely 
as when the pale radiance of the blessed tapers 
shone tenderly down upon her fair, finely-cut 
face. How happy, how proud she was of her 
husband’s deference to her faith, h-is toleration, 
his liberality! In fact, it was the wonder of 
every one who knew them, and nothing pleased 
her better than having it noticed. Indeed, she 
was so touched by it that when they returned to 
Nice she offered to go with him occasionally to 
the English chapel; but he, belonging to no 
creed or sect, had not the least desire to go 
where the bare, cold worship of the Protestant 
religion had nothing to offer for the gratification 
of his aesthetic tastes. As to religion itself, he 
was perfectly indifferent: his honor was liis god, 
his duty to the service his only dogma. “I 
wish that he could be convinced,” his wife said 
to a friend; ‘‘of course it would be a great happi- 
ness to me if he were to become a Catholic; but 
he is so good, why should I worry myself if he 
doesn’t?” And there she rested quite satisfied, 


’bkth’s promise. g^i 

only that she sometimes offered for his 

conversion. 

Mrs. Hamilton had gone with a fashionable 
and distinguished party to visit Eg}^pt and the 
Holy Land; the idea of seeing the pyramids, of 
riding on camels, and meeting actual Bedouins, 
proved too great a temptation for her to resist; 
besides, it was quite the thing to make this 
journey. have nothing to keep me tied 

down,” said Boiiiie Mere ; ‘‘Anne is very hap- 
pily married, and letters from my two boys tell 
me they are doing well, so there’s no earthly 
reason why I should not begin to enjoy myself.” 
She took an affectionate leave of Anne, crammed 
a check for a large amount into her hand, em- 
braced Lieutenant Morley, and started on her 
journey in fine spirits. Could she only have 
looked into the future, would she have gone with 
so light a heart to meet what was yet afar off, 
but coming slowly to meet her? 


too 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AUNT ’BETH. 

The ‘ ‘ Cumberland ” was at anchor in the 
harbor of Nice when the order came for her to 
return to the United States. Her cruise was over. 
The news was hailed with satisfaction by her 
officers, and with hearty cheers by the crew. That 
evening, when the band sent the tender strains 
of ‘‘Home! sweet home!” floating out upon the 
air, there were but few hearts on the old ship 
that did not turn with loving thoughts to the 
dear ones parted from so long ago. Nor is it 
strange that a regret on leaving those fair south- 
ern lands, now grown familiar in their beauty, in 
their treasures of art, of song, and of story, should 
have mingled with their joyous dreams of home 
and native land. 

The wives of two of the officers of the “Cum- 
berland” had joined them at Nice, soon after the 
arrival of the ship at that station, and had rented 
a furnished house in the city. Here Lieut. Mor- 
ley and his wife, after leaving Naples, had taken 
delightful apartments, where they enjoyed the 
charms of a private establishment and the novelty 
of house-keeping combined. This was a pleasant 
arrangement for the ladies, especially while the 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


lOI 


ship was off on her summer cruise in the northern 
seas; and they formed a pleasant and friendly 
coterie^ which, fortunately for their own comfort, 
remained unbroken until the moment of separa- 
tion came. It was decided that they were to go 
home via Paris by the Havre steamer, and as 
Ivieut Morley was detached to take some official 
despatches, which Admiral Irwin — not knowing 
how his ship might be detained by storms or 
otherwise — wished to reach the Navy Depart- 
ment at Washington with as little delay as pos- 
sible, the ladies were placed under his care until 
they should reach New York, where their friends 
would meet them. They had barely time to pack 
their trunks and be off in season to catch the 
steamer; fortunately for them — they had been in 
daily expectation of orders for several weeks — 
their collections of bric-a-brac and other pur- 
chases had been safely stowed in the hold of the 
‘ ‘ Cumberland ’ ’ for some days, and their minds 
were relieved of all anxiety concerning them. 
At that time, officers of the navy were permitted 
to bring such matters home on the vessels to 
which they were attached, free of duty, which 
enabled them to procure many rich, useful, and 
beautiful things in foreign ports, at prices which 
there they could well afford, but the cost of 
which, at home, would have been simply ruinous. 

On their arrival in New York, Tieut. Morley 
and his wife were to proceed without delay to 
Washington, to transact some business which was 


102 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


the object of their journey ; returning theuce they 
were to go direct to ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ” to visit Aunt 
'Beth, the young officer’s only living relative, to 
whom he was very anxious to introduce his 
young wife, of whom he was very proud. Nor 
was it to be wondered at, for her beauty had not 
only matured into a rare loveliness, but her 
naturally amiable character had developed so 
many fine traits, that she was well worthy of the 
tender devotion he lavished upon her. 

The party had travelled so rapidly that when 
they got to Paris they found to their great delight 
that they could spend two days there, sight-see- 
ing and resting, before going to join the home- 
ward bound steamer at Havre. 

The voyage was a tempestuous one, and Anne 
Morley was not only sea-sick, but awed and ter- 
rified beyond expression, although her husband 
was with her whenever he could spare a moment 
from the duties which, owing to the imminent 
peril the steamer was in, had devolved upon him- 
self and others of the passengers. The ship was 
not well officered; the captain was not only inex- 
perienced and ignorant of his duties in such a 
terrible emergency as this, but in his desperation 
he took such frequent drinks of absinthe as would 
have incapacitated him for command had the sea 
been smooth as glass. He raved about like a mad- 
man; swearing, and giving orders which, if 
obeyed, would have sent the noble ship to the 
bottom in a short time. Finally, and fortunately 


’bkth^s promise. 


103 


for the safety of all on board, he fell to the deck 
in a fit He was taken to his state-room, and the 
surgeon was summoned, who, having done what 
he could for him, locked him in, to recover at 
his leisure. In this emergency the officers sur- 
rounded Lieut. Morley and besought him to take 
command, at least while the storm lasted, ac- 
knowledging their incapacity to manage the ship. 

‘ ‘It is an awful responsibility you wish to impose 
upon me, gentlemen,’’ he answered; “but I have 
one here who is dearer than life itself, also friends 
who are under my protection, and for their safety 
and humanity’s sake, I accept it. Fortunately I 
speak your language; otherwise, what you ask 
would be next to impossible. ’ ’ 

The storm seemed to increase in violence, and 
Anne thought she heard her husband’s voice 
ringing out orders, quick and imperative, above 
the wild roar of wind and wave, and it gave her 
a feeling of safety It was well that he had so 
fluent a command of French, for the seamen 
understood every word he uttered, and lost not a 
moment in obeying his orders, and by sunrise 
the steamer had worked her way out of the cir- 
cle of storms that she had entered, and was in 
comparative safety, although the ocean was still 
lashing furiously, and appeared to threaten de- 
struction. At the first moment that he felt he 
could be safely spared, Lieut. Morley went to see 
after his wife, almost fearing to find her half 
dead with fright. 


104 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


“Oil, Arthur, my husband!” she exclaimed, 
clasping his neck as he stooped over to kiss her. 
“You shall never go to sea again. You mus^ 
resign as soon as we get home.” 

“I don’t think you’ll ask that, my darling, 
when we get on dry land once more. Have you 
been frightened?” 

“For you — yes; for myself, no,” she an- 
swered. “I was more astonished, I believe, at 
the noise and din, and the pitching of the vessel, 
than anything else, until I’d think of you — then 
I’d feel as if I should die with terror. If I could 
have kept my feet I would have come to you. ’ ’ 

“For what, my wife? Your presence in such" 
a scene, distracting my attention even for a few 
moments, might have been fatal to all the efforts 
I was making to save the ship,” he said, gravely 
and tenderly. “But see here! what’s the mean- 
ing of these bandages around your wrist?” 

“Oh, never mind that. It is nothing. I was 
only pitched out of my bed when the floor of the 
cabin was where the ceiling ought to have been. 

I didn’t know where I was going, or what had 
become of me. I was tumbling about in such a 
lieap, catching at things, until the surgeon hap- 
pened to be going round and came in. He 
picked me up, and found out that mv wrist was 
scratched, and sprained, too, then he bound it 
up nicely, and fastened me in my berth by nail- 
ing these strips of canvas along the front here. 
He had hammer and nails, and bandages, and 


’beth’s promise. 105 

all sorts of things in his pockets. Then he 
made me drink some orange- water, which I de- 
test, but it did me good. But what was best of 
all, he said you were all right, in such a torrent 
of French compliments that I began to think I 
had perhaps married one of Homer’s Greek 
heroes. Don’t look so grave; I assure you this 
is only a trifle — and it was all very funny.” 

‘‘Well, I’ll laugh, then, my brave little wife. 
But I’m very sorry that you got hurt.” 

“It is nothing, Arthur. It has cured my sea- 
sickness, and, do you know, I’m so hungry I 
believe I could almost eat a piece of raw pork.” 

“That is good news! You shall have a royal 
dinner,” he said, laughing, as he smoothed hei 
bound-up hand very tenderly. “We shall be in 
smooth water by noon, I hope, and to-morrow 
we shall be sailing on a summer sea. But, no 
mistake! we’ve been in great danger. There 
was a time when I thought all further efforts to 
save the ship would be useless. If the brave 
fellows on board had not behaved so well — but 
never mind, it is over now, thank God!” 

“I was saying my beads for you all the time, 
Arthur — for all of us,” she said, in gentle tones. 
“I believe Our Blessed Dady has helped us 
through. ’ ’ 

“You Catholics call her ‘Star of the Sea,’ do 
you not?” he answered. “Your relig^’on is filled 
with poetry, my wife.” 

“And with something deeper than you know 


’bkth’s promise. 


106 

of, Arthur,-’ she said. Then, to turn the con- 
versation, — for she never argued with him upon 
religious matters — she asked: “What became of 
the captain during the storm?” 

“He was taken with a fit, and is quite ill,” 
was all he said. 

“I hope he is in no danger. He has been so 
very polite to us that I quite like him. ’ ’ 

“The surgeon thinks him very ill, and no one 
is allowed to see him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am so glad, Arthur, that we shall have a 
few days’ calm weather, and time to rest a little, 
before Aunt ’Beth sees me. I am such a fright, 
and look so ill, she might think you hadn’t 
treated me well. Arthur Morley ! ” she suddenly 
exclaimed, running her hand over his clothes, 
“you are wringing wet! Do you mean to kill 
yourself? Go into the dressing-room this mo- 
ment and put on dry clothes” — they had taken 
two state-rooms, one of which was used for a 
dressing-room — “and be sure to drink some 
French brandy.” With thoughtful tenderness 
she thus hurried the careless fellow away, know- 
ing that, stalwart and robust as he looked, he 
came of a weak-lunged race, and that every little 
cold he caught settled on his chest, giving him 
no end of trouble. And so he remembered, as 
without further delay he changed his dripping 
garments for others that were warm and dry. 

The remainder of the vo)^age was very pleas- 
ant, and the ship arrived at New York in due 


’bevh’s promise. 


lo; 

time. After talsing leave of her friends — with 
whom her intercourse had been so pleasant for a 
year past — and her husband had gone ashore 
with them to meet the relatives who awaited 
them on the pier, Anne Morley still lingered at 
the vessel’s side, to catch a last glimpse of them 
and give a last wave of her handkerchief before 
they drove off. But throngs of people soon hid 
them from her, and she was about turning away 
to get in out of the wind, when her attention was 
attracted towards a lady who had just alighted 
from a carriage, and scrambled upon a pile of 
lumber, which elevated her a few feet above the 
heads of the jostling crowd, and she stood watch- 
ing intently the passengers as they left the ship. 
She was small, and wrapped in a light traveling 
cloak, while the crisp wdnd sweeping in from the 
bay, blew her pretty white curls so wildly over 
her face, that Anne Morley could only catch 
glimpses now and then of a pair of keen blue 
eyes and cheeks as ruddy as a winter apple. She 
was irresistibly attracted to this stranger, on 
whom she had never laid her eyes before; her 
heart seemed to go out to her somehow, and she 
found herself almost wishing for such a mother, 
or such a friend, as she was sure she must be to 
those she loved. Then she wondered how, being 
so small and slight, she managed to keep her 
footing, with the wind blowing such a gale, 
until she noticed with what a determined air she 
braced herself against it, and how firmly her two 


io8 ’bkth’s promise. 

small, nicely-booted feet were planted upon hei 
rough perch. Suddenly she caught sight of her 
husband, who, having placed the last lady under 
his care in a carriage, was making his way back 
to the ship through the crowd, when he heard, 
not far from him, a familiar voice shouting: 
‘ ‘ Arthur! Arthur Morley I ’ ’ He looked around, 
saw the lady who was perched on the lumber, 
and in another moment his wife, who had seen 
and heard it all, saw him rush towards her, lift 
her down in his strong arms, never letting her 
feet touch the ground until he had hugged and 
kissed her two or three times, to the amusement 
of those who, having nothing else to do at the 
moment, stood watching the scene. 

“It is Aunt ’Beth — I know it!” said Anne, 
laughing. “Oh, I am so glad it is she! To think 
I was just wishing for her as my very own!” 
Then she hastened to the gangway, and before 
her husband could introduce her to his aunt, she 
had thrown her arms around her and kissed her: 
“I’ve been watching her,” she said, “ever since 
she got up on those boards, and I knew it was 
Aunt ’Beth as soon as she called you! Will you 
be my aunt too? — but oh, I forgot! I am Ar- 
thur’s wife, you know!” 

“Arthur’s wife! My dearest, I think I should 
love you if you had never seen my boy; but now 
I shall love you for his sake, and for your own 
too,” said Miss Morley, embracing her warmly. 

“I am glad you two have met, my dearest 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


109 

little auntie. I’m sure I didn’t expect to see you 
here!” 

“Did you suppose I’d let you bring your wife 
home to find no one to welcome you — and you 
away three years! I’ve been in New York a 
week waiting for the steamer, and a precious 
two days’ anxiety I’ve had since hearing of the 
frightful storms that it was feared she had en- 
countered. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes! I forgot the storms. We did get 
into the edge of them, and had to run out of our 
course a few hundred miles to save ourselves; 
but here we are, all safe. But now, my dearest 
ones, I must hurry to catch the Washington 
train. Aunt ’Beth, take my wife home with 
you and get acquainted with her, by the time I 
come to ‘Ellerslie,’ two days hence. You’ll go, 
won’t you, darling?” he said to his wife, whose 
eyes showed astonishment at this sudden change 
of plan. 

“Willingly. Anywhere with Aunt ’Beth, if 
you promise me to be back in two days,” she 
answered. 

“What’s the matter that you can’t come with 
us, Arthur?” 

“Nothing in the world but to report myself 
and deliver dispatches to the Department. I’ll 
be back in two days, I hope,” he said, laughing, 
as he kissed her. 

Aunt ’Beth was sorry to hear this, but she 
only said: “One might as well live in Russia, 


no 


’beth^s promise. 


as to belong to such a despotic profession as 
yours. ’ ’ 

But Miss Morley never fretted over things that 
were unavoidable; she only spoke her mind, and 
was done with it. She kissed him good-bye, 
told him that his place at “Ellerslie” should be 
kept bright and warm for him, and to hurry 
home as quickly as possible. He embraced his 
wife, helped her and Aunt ’Beth into the car- 
riage, and rushed off to give directions about the 
baggage, which was ordered to be sent to the 
Astor House; then he called a cab, and drove to 
the Courtland street Ferry, crossed to Jersey 
City, and in less than half an hour, was on his 
way to Washington. 

‘‘Now, my child,” said Aunt ’Beth, as they 
were driving across the city towards the depot 
of the Hudson River railroad, “don’t try to love 
me, but love me if you can. My heart is 
open, and it will make me a very happy old 
woman if you’ll walk in and take possession.” 

“There’s no trying. Aunt ’Beth. I have loved 
you ever since I first knew you, and that has 
been from the time I was engaged to Arthur; he 
used to talk of you, and tell me so many delight- 
ful things about you and ‘Ellerslie,’ that I could 
not help it. I used to feel afraid, though, some- 
times; and once in a while a wee bit jealous; 
but now — now. Aunt ’Beth, I feel as if I should 
have loved my own mother as I love you. I 
have had good, kind friends. Boime Mire 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


Ill 


Hamilton was kind and generous, and Yery 
good to me — but it was different; I feel, some- 
how, as if I belonged to you. Only — only — but 
perhaps you do not know that I am a Catholic?’’ 

‘‘Yes: I know all about it. It will make no 
difference to me, my child, if it is a religion that 
will help you to fulfil all the duties of life with a 
Christ-like spirit, ’ ’ said Miss Morley, with grave 
tenderness. “You may trust me, Anne, my 
child; I don’t know that you will love me on a 
closer acquaintance, but you may trust me, and 
I’ll be true to you to the end.” 

Aunt ’Beth’s heart was touched by the sponta- 
neous affection expressed for her by her “boy’s 
wife, ’ ’ about whom she had been having many 
misgivings, lest she should win his love away 
from her in her old days. “For what,” she 
often asked herself, “will a young, beautiful, 
fashionable woman care for such an old frump as 
I am?” But now all her fears had an end, and 
she took the young creature she had so much 
dreaded, without question or doubt, into her 
heart; nor did reason ever arise for either of them 
to repent it. 

‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ was a portion of certain old manor 
lands that had been in the Morley family for 
generations. The Morleys were of mingled 
Scotch and Dutch descent, and had lived and 
died — aye, and been buried here on their own 
old acres, until Margaret von Plater — the last of 
her race — married Sir Arthur Morley, an Eng- 


II2 


’jbeth’s promise. 


lish gentleman, who took her home to his own 
country, where she jjined and grew so homesick 
that her physicians decided she must either go 
back or die. They returned to ‘‘Ellerslie,’^ 
making it thereafter their home, except for two 
or three iruonths of each year, when Sir Arthur 
visited England to look after his affairs. A son 
and a daughter — Lieutenant Morley’s father and 
Aunt ’Beth — were born of this marriage. They 
were not a long-lived race, the Morleys, and after 
some years Aunt ’Beth found herself left alone 
at “Ellerslie” with her brother’s only child — a 
boy — who had been confided to her care by his 
dying father, his mother having died a few days 
after his birth. The old house at “Ellerslie” 
was a spacious two-story building, branching off 
into wings, springing up into turrets, and rejoic- 
ing in other additions, according to the fancy or 
convenience of successive owners — the quaintest, 
most incongruous, ivy-grown pile that was ever 
thrown together — but so filled with comfort, 
with elegance, and collections of everything old 
and rare, including books, that it was the most 
delightful home that can well be imagined. Sur- 
rounded by a spacious velvety lawn, shaded by 
groups of magnificent old trees, and decorated 
with flowers, fountains, and gray, pathetic-look- 
ing statues placed there so long ago that lich- 
ens and mildew had leisurely worked their will 
upon them — it was not <i^ily picturesque, but de- 
void of that look of newness which tells one at a 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 




glance that there is no history or tradition to 
soften or charm the spot. It was even whis- 
pered that ‘‘Ellerslie” had a haunted room and 
a ghost story, which, of course, invested it with 
an abiding interest. 

But we cannot linger at ‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ now, how- 
ever pleasant it would be to do so. Letters came 
from Lieutenant Morley in a day or two, full of 
good news. He had received his promotion as 
Lieutenant-Commander, and was ordered to the 
Portsmouth (Va.) navy-yard on the ist, which 
would give him three full weeks at ‘‘Ellerslie;” 
and his wife and Aunt ’Beth had scarcely finished 
reading and talking over them with each other, 
exchanging their views on his promotion — which 
they both decided he deserved long ago — and 
expatiating on his perfections generally, when he 
made his appearance, so jubilant and so happy to 
be “at home” once more, and with the two be- 
ings dearest of all the world to him, that they felt 
more than compensated for the pain of his short 
absence. United in affection, sympathy and cul- 
ture, with a bright future before them ; wander- 
ing through the old homestead, going over its 
far-off romances and its stirring traditions; driv- 
ing through the lovely, picturesque scenery of 
the neighborhood, and exploring the wild nooks 
and wooded cliffs of the lake shore, Arthur Mor- 
ley and his wife were, humanly speaking, as 
happy as one may ever hope to be on earth ; and 
the time sped by only too swiftly. Not a day 


betii's promise. 


passed, however, when they all chanced to be to. 
gether, that they did not urge Aunt ’Beth, by 
every persuasion they could invent, to accom- 
pany them to Virginia when they went to their 
new station. But she had many reasons to urge 
against it, some of which she kept to herself. In 
fact. Aunt ’Beth had, literally, taken root at 
“Ellerslie,” and could not help feeling that it 
would go to pieces if she, the pivot on which it 
centred, should leave it. Who would keep af- 
fairs wound up regularly ? who regulate them ? 
what would become of her people, her poor? 
She could not see how it would be possible for 
her to go. But one night, after leaving Arthur 
to have his smoke out on the veranda. Aunt 
’Beth and the young wife went upstairs together 
to the room of the latter, where it had grown to 
be a habit with them to have a long good-night 
chat, before going to bed. Anne had been again 
urging her to go home with them, but she had 
not consented; she could not make it clear to 
herself how she could abandon all her active 
duties at ‘‘ Ellerslie,” unless there were highei 
duties elsewhere to demand her presence. 
‘‘Young married people,” she remarked, “are 
better left to themselves, to get used to each 
other. ’ ’ 

“I want to tell you something. Aunt ’Beth,” 
said Anne, leaning her head on Aunt ’Beth’s 
shoulder as she sat on a low cushioned chair 
close by her, and spoke in gentle, tremulous 


’beth’s promise. 


II5 


tones cf a time that was coming when she 
dreaded being alone with strangers — a time of all 
others in the life of a woman when she needs 
the tenderness and care of a mother’s love. 
Aunt ’Beth understood now; she folded Anne to 
her breast, while womanly tears glistened in her 
eyes and dropped on the fair head, and, resting 
there, she yielded. ‘‘Not that I can. go with 
you now, darling, but later, when everything is 
settled and in running order for the winter, I 
shall be sure to come; that is, if you think they 
won’ t hang and quarter me down there for being 
an abolitionist.” A hearty laugh, close by, 
made them look up quickly to see Arthur Mor- 
ley standing in the doorway, where he had over- 
heard the conclusion of Aunt ’Beth’s speech, and 
knew that his wife had at last won her consent 
to go. ^ 

“That’s just his old, boyish way!” said Aunt 
’Beth, smiling, and looking up proudly at the 
tall, handsome man before her; in another mo- 
ment he had lifted her up like a child and seated 
her upon his strong, broad shoulder, exclaiming: 
‘ ‘ There’ 11 be no trouble on that score ; we shall 
be shut up in the Navy Yard, my little Aunty, 
a mile from both cities, and shall see nothing of 
the peculiar ^institution. Hurrah! I’m so glad 
you are coming that I have half a mind to go 
out on the lawn and have a war-dance with you. ’ ’ 

“If you do not put me down, Arthur, I will 
never come,” said Aunt ’Beth, falling back upon 


ii6 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


a threat, knowing how perfectly helpless she 
would be to prevent it if he should undertake so 
wild a prank. 

He lowered her very gently to her chair, and 
Anne, who had been looking on, half amused, 
half frightened, took her hand and pressed it 
against her cheek, saying: “Arthur! how could 
you?” 

Aunt ’Beth laughed. “Did he ever tell you 
how, after fretting, and fuming, and tormenting 
me for two years to let him go into the Navy, he 
at last won my unwilling consent ? I don’t like 
the Navy, my dear, and never did; I always 
thought that landed proprietors should stay at 
home and plough their acres, instead of the salt 
seas, to say nothing of getting wrecked and 
drowned. ’ ’ 

“What did he do. Aunt ’Beth? I’m sure, 
from the way he is looking, that it was some- 
thing outrageous. ’ ’ 

“It was^ Anne, my love. We were in one of 
the rooms in the old Dutch part of the house, 
where the mantel-piece is half way up to the 
ceiling. He had just got a letter from the Sen- 
ator from our State, an old friend of his father’s 
and mine, offering him a midshipman’s commis- 
sion. I objected to his accepting it, and offered 
him anything, however costly, if he would only 
give it up. I urged, I entreated and argued 
with him, and when I thought he was just about 
giving in, he picked me up and set me upon the 


BETH’S PROJMISE. 


II7 

mantel-piece, declaring that he’d never take me 
down if I did not promise to let him go into the 
Navy. It was inglorious to yield, but I did. 
What else could I do? I should have broken 
my legs if I had jumped; and besides, a sudden 
dread struck me that if I opposed him any longer 
in the career he had set his heart upon, he might 
turn out good-for-nothing, and maybe wicked — 
for you see, my dear, I knew his determined 
spirit.” 

‘‘You were a wise, good fairy, and I now 
humbly beg pardon for putting you upon the 
mantel-piece, the choicest specimen of virtu that 
was ever set there. But I’m afraid I should re- 
peat the experiment if it were to be done over 
again; for notice, my wife, she admits that then 
and there she was convinced of her folly ! ’ ’ said 
the great handsome fellow, kneeling down before 
them, folding them both in a tender embrace, 
and telling Aunt ’Beth how glad he was that 
she was coming to see them in their Southern 
home. 

“And you’re sure, on your honor, now, Arthur, 
that I shall get into no trouble on the negro ques- 
tion ? ’ ’ she asked, quite seriously, as she got up 
to light her candle. 

“ Not unless you undertake to deliver a public 
abolition lecture,” he answered, gravely. “In 
that case I would not answer for your safety.” 

“ Pshaw!” exclaimed Aunt ’Beth, then kissed 
them good-night, and went to her own room to 


ii8 ’bath’s promise;. 

think over things, feeling very happy, and very 
much surprised at herself. 

“It certainly is the dearest old place I ever 
saw. No wonder Aunt ’Beth hates to leave it,” 
said Anne Morley to her husband, the day they 
left ‘ ‘ Ellerslie. ’ ’ The carriage was at a turn of 
the road which gave them the last glimpse of 
the place, and they both looked back regretfully 
at its gray turrets rising above the trees. 

“That will be our home one of these days — 
when I retire from the service with the rank of 
Admiral,” he said. “This would be a very 
pleasant thought, Anne, if another thought did 
not always come with it to sadden me. It is 
that, perhaps, when that time comes. Aunt ’ Beth 
wll be no longer there to welcome us. ’ ’ 

“It would no longer be the ‘Ellerslie’ we 
love without her, and I won’t think of it. There 
has been but one single drawback to my perfect 
content there — a thing which no one could help, 
and which I avoided referring to on that ac- 
count,” she said, speaking her inmost thoughts 
to her husband, as she always did. 

“What was that, my darling?” 

“Didn’t you notice?” she asked, laughing. 
“ But how should you, not being a Catholic?” 

“Oh, now I understand! It is true you must 
have missed your Church very much — just after 
a three years’ residence in a Catholic country, 
too! Whvj my wife, you must feel like a 
heathen. I am very sorry.” 


’beth’s promise. 1 19 

“No, I don’t feel like a heathen, Arthur; I 
knew that the only Catholic church about here 
was ten miles off, and that it was a mission . 
chapel, only attended by a priest once a month. 
One of the Irish maids told me. So I read the 
Mass-prayers, and said the rosary in my room, 
on Sundays. ’ ’ 

“One of these days we’ll build a beautiful 
little Gothic chapel somewhere among the old 
trees at ‘Ellerslie,’ ” he said, “if you’ll promise 
not to spend all your time praying there. ’ ’ 

“No fear of that. But what would Aunt 
’Beth say ? ” 

“I don’t think she’d care at all, for herself; 
and she is so independent of other people’s 
opinions, that I don’t think their prejudices 
would aflFect her in the least, especially if she 
thought it would make us happy. ’ ’ 

“ How kind you are to me, Arthur, about my 
religion! ” she said gently. “ I wish I were only 
devout enough to deserve it. ’ ’ 

“Devout enough? Why, you’re a real saint, 
woman! if you were to get much better, I should 
be afraid of you, and run off to sea,” he replied, 
laughingly. 

“I’m sorry to say that I fear I shall never be 
as pious as I would like to be,” she said. Then, 
to change the subject, she directed his attention 
to a far-off view of Lake Seneca, over which 
were two or three small, white-sailed pleasure 
boats gliding along with a pleasant breeze, giv* 
ing life and movement to the scene. 


120 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ale’s well.” 

The old trees at “Ellerslie” began to put on 
their rich attire of crimson and gold, v/arning 
Aunt ’ Beth that the time drew near for her to 
go South. In her regular, methodical way, she 
set about making the necessary preparations for 
the journey, nor did she let the urgent weekly 
letter that she received regularly from the Mor- 
leys fluster or hurry her in the least. Certain 
things had to be done, and the right sort of a 
person left in charge — some one who would 
faithfully carry out her directions, and see after 
her poor neighbors, who would otherwise suffer 
during the winter — or she could not leave “El- 
lerslie. ’ ’ 

At last she found what she sought — a widow 
of middle age, an upright, good, sensible woman, 
whose very limited means made the situation 
offered not only acceptable, but providential. 
A week spent at “Ellerslie” with its mistress, 
going over everything with her, receiving her in- 
structions, and seeing her method of managing, 
made the widow Trott feel that she might safel} 
assume the responsibility of affairs left under her 
charge. Notwithstanding that everything which 


beth’s promise. 


121 


human foresight could suggest was provided for, 
Aunt ’ Beth left home with many serious misgiv- 
ings. Not that she distrusted Mrs. Trott’s good 
intentions, but her executive ability might fall 
short of her intentions^, ‘‘then,” thought she, 
“there’s no telling what will be the result.” 
There was, also, the Southern ‘ ‘ institution ’ ’ she 
so much dreaded and disliked, awaiting her at 
the end of the journey; in short, the little woman 
was nearer being in the state of mind best known 
and understood as a “ stew ’ ’ than she had ever 
been in all her life. But the pleasant excitement, 
and the very motion of travel, with all its varied 
panorama, diverted her thoughts from her cares 
and the possibilities associated with them; and 
at last her heart grew full of the happiness that 
awaited her in the society of the dear ones she 
was so anxious to see, even to the exclusion of the 
haunting shadow of negro slavery that had so 
much and so often, like a very nightmare, dis* 
turbed the pleasant anticipations of her visit. 
On the beautiful bay, with a bright sky over- 
head, and the crisp salt breeze fanning her cheek, 
the fine steamer bore her swiftly towards them, 
with just motion enough to exhilarate and not 
sicken. The broad stretch of sky bending down 
in the distance, like a sapphire wall, behind the 
white-crested waves on one side, the passing 
sails, the snowy sea-gulls flying by, the distant, 
dreamy-looking shore on the other, charmed 
Aunt ’Beth into admitting to herself that she 


122 


’bkth’s promise. 


was really glad she had come — that there was, 
after all, a charm about the sea; and she no 
longer wondered at Arthur’s infatuation for it. 
The sunset, far landward, was glorious; the stai- 
lit night more splendid than any she had ever 
seen, so large and bright shone every gem that 
studded the azure heavens; while the frothing 
waves around and in the boat’s wake were golden 
with phosphorescent radiance. At last — wearied, 
yet reluctant to close her eyes on all this won- 
drous beauty, so new to her, and so vast that a 
sense of awe mingled with her enjoyment — Aunt 
’Beth went to bed, where, “rocked in the cradle 
of the deep,” she slept through the livelong 
night, and, until a gleam of sunlight flashed 
through the window into her face, as soundly as 
if she had been reposing on her own down pil- 
lows at ‘ ‘Ellerslie. ’ ’ She opened her eyes, glanced 
round, and wondered where on earth she was; 
then she heard voices, and a low, rippling laugh 
at her door — Anally, a light tap; in another mo- 
ment she had sprung up, opened the door, and 
was in Anne Morley’s arms, with Arthur bend- 
ing over to kiss and welcome her. “But how 
did you get here, my dear ones?” asked the in- 
sular little woman. ‘ ‘ Did the boat stop and take 
you up somewhere ? ” 

‘ ‘ The boat is in the Norfolk dock. Aunt ’ Beth, ’ ’ 
said her nephew, laughing, and kissing her again. 

‘ ‘ She got in half an hour ago, and we came ovei 
in the steam-tug to take you and your trunks 
home.” 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


123 


“But I must dress myself, Arthur! Do you 
think they’ll wait? I can’t go in my night- 
gown, you know?” said Aunt ’Beth, quite in a 
fluster. 

“Of course not,” he answered, gravely, while 
his eyes twinkled merrily; “but you can take 
your time. Aunt ’Beth, about dressing: the boat 
won’t stir again until this evening. Meanwhile 
give me your checks; I’ll go and have your bag- 
gage put on the tug — it will save time. Don’t 
you think the South agrees with us?” 

“ Yes, ” said Aunt ’ Beth, giving him the checks ; 
“you both look radiant. Now, Anne, my dear, 
help me a little, for I really believe I am in a 
tremor. ’ ’ 

Soon they were steaming across the channel 
and up towards the Navy Yard, leaving the 
dingy, lifeless-looking old city of Norfolk, and 
the straggling town of Portsmouth, on the op- 
posite shore, behind them. Having landed at 
the dock of the Navy Yard, delighted and exult- 
ing at having her there at last, the Morleys with 
glad words of welcome led her by paths that 
wound through plantations of pomegranate trees, 
past great fig-trees, clustering roses, and trailing 
jasmine, to their own pleasant home, where the 
wide-latticed veranda, and the open windows 
shaded by oleanders in full bloom, and crape 
myrtles loaded with their delicate pink blooms, 
seemed waiting to receive the expected and long- 
hoped-for guest. A delicious breakfast awaited 


124 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


them in the coziest of dining-rooms — wheie, al- 
though the weather was balmy, a bright little 
wood fire was blazing on the hearth, scarcely 
brighter than the highly-polished brass andirons 
that supported it. All that ample means and 
refined taste could accomplish had been brought 
into requisition to make his home attractive and 
delightful; and Arthur Morley and his wife found 
there, in each other’s society, happiness rarely 
vouchsafed to human hearts. It was a busy 
day: so much to talk over, so many questions to 
ask and answer; then the unpacking and arrang- 
ing Aunt ’Beth’s drawers, wardrobe, etc. It was 
a happy as well as a busy day; and when it was 
over, and Aunt ’Beth went to bed, she thought 
she had never been so happy in all her life. As 
she lay thinking — as she always loved to do be- 
fore falling asleep — she heard a distant but clear 
tap of bells, followed by a cry of “All’s well!” 
which was repeated from one point to another 
in varying tones, until at last it faintly sounded 
far off; then all was silent. She did not know 
what it meant, but it rested her, and somehow 
t ouched her. It was the cry of the sentinels on 
the various United States vessels lying in the 
river around the Navy Yard, waiting for repairs 
or supplies — some of them there to go out of 
commission, others to be fitted up for sea, and 
whenever their bells tapped the hour, “All’s 
well!” sounded like a message of peace and 
safety from the sentinels who guarded them. 


’bkth’s promise. 


125 


The happiness of her nephew and his wife, their 
perfect and entire trust in each other, filled Aunt 
’Beth with a satisfaction of mind not easily de- 
scribed. Their oneness of purpose, their sym- 
pathies, tastes and aims were in such accord that 
it came nearer to her ideal of a perfect union 
than any she had ever seen; and yet — but she 
did not recognize the fact — there was one thing 
needed to make it so, a oneness in Faith ^ with- 
out which’ no marriage is sacramental and 
perfect. 

As yet. Aunt ’Beth had seen nothing of ‘‘the 
peculiar institution,” to disturb her; she might 
as well have been at “Ellerslie,” so far as that 
was concerned. The household servants were a 
sleek, contented set, well-mannered, neat in 
their dress, obedient without servility, cheerful 
without familiarity, and full of pride in all that 
concerned the position and surroundings as well 
as the family consequence of their temporary 
master and mistress, and, withal, very children 
in their affection and docility towards them. 
She would not believe that they were slaves until 
seriously assured of the fact, and she felt hon- 
estly glad that the ‘ ‘ institution ’ ’ had some bright 
spots, especially when she learned that these 
represented a class to be found all over the 
South. It gave her something new to think 
about, and lulled some of her prejudices to rest; 
for, as she reasoned in her terse way, “seeing is 
believing.” 


126 


’bkth's promisk. 


Sunday came. The air was as full of sunshi ne, 
of the warbling of birds, of the fragrance of 
roses, as in June. The great oleander blossoms 
nodded in the sweet salt breeze, and gay butter- 
flies, like winged jewels, flashed and circled 
around them, and there was a drowsy humming 
of bees among the spicy carnations lower down 
that made the harmony of the scene complete. 
Aunt ’Beth stood on the veranda drinking it all 
in, and wondering if it could indeed be near the 
last of October. 

‘‘I’ve been up to your room looking for you. 
Aunt ’Beth, to ask if you would like to go to 
church. Arthur will go with you; he has a pew 
in the Episcopal Church. I will leave you both 
there, and go on to my own church,” said Anne 
Morley, as she pinned a cluster of white jasmine 
on the ribbon bow which fastened Aunt ’Beth’s 
fine lace collar. 

“How far off is your church, dear? Within 
easy distance I hope; for you should not take 
long walks, you know?” 

“Oh no,” she answered, with a bright smile: 
“I don’t. Both churches are over a mile away; 
and \rthur — I didn’t tell you — bought me a 
ligh^ pretty carriage and a strong, gentle horse, 
that I might have no trouble about getting to 
Mass. He goes with me sometimes, and has 
been only once to his own church. Indeed, 
Aunt ’Beth you’ll have to talk to him about it* 
don’t you think he ought to go?” 


^BETII’S promise. 12/ 

“My dear, if Arthur was a member of that 
church, he’d go— depend upon it — for he never 
shirks a duty, let it be what it may — he never 
did. I never meddle in such matters. People 
must fight out their own battles with conscience. 
J m clear for every one’s doing just what he 
thinks right and best in the service that he owes 
his Creator. That is my creed, ’ ’ answered Aunt 
’Beth, in her calm, incisive way. 

“But you know, dear Aunty, he told me that 
he was going to take you to church to-day,” 
said Anne. 

“I am not going, my child. I’d rather sit 
here in this quiet and beautiful spot, and read 
my Bible; it will do me more good than being 
in a crowded church, where most of the people 
are thinking about what other people have on, 
and the sermon is full of everything except 
‘Christ, and Him crucified.’ ” 

“Oh, Aunt ’Beth, that is very severe!” said 
Anne, gently. 

“It’s the truth, according to my view; but 
don’t mind my opinion.” 

“Perhaps — would you come with me, then. 
Aunt ’Beth?” 

“No, my dear; I have my Bible in my native 
tongue, and I can understand all that I read in it. 
Services Conducted in Tatin would be worse than 
‘sounding brass and tinkling cymbal’ to me. I 
mean no offence, my love; but it is a fact.” 

“Be happy in your own way. Aunty ’Beth. I 


128 


’beth’s promise. 


must run away now to get ready; it is neatly 
time to start,’’ said Anne Morley, kissing her as 
she went away to dress. 

And Aunt ’Beth was left to her own devices 
after this, so far as going to church was con- 
cerned; and she continued to enjoy her inalien- 
able right as an American in the exercise of a 
liberty of conscience that was without guide or 
compass, and as near the confines of infidelity as 
it could be without crossing the line that divided 
it from Christianity. But, humanly and morally 
speaking. Aunt ’Beth was a good, exemplary, 
sensible woman; her principles were high and 
noble, and every quality of her mind and heart, 
true, generous, and intolerant of all meanness. 
She gave of her substance with a liberal hand to 
the poor; aye, for a principle “she would have 
given her body to be burned;” but what was it 
all without faith — ^without that vivifying element 
which would have transformed and consecrated 
her natural gifts into fruits meet for heaven? 

Time sped swiftly and happily on. In the 
daily intercourse with her “children,” as she 
called the Morleys, nothing seemed wanting to 
Aunt ’Beth’s happiness, while the novel sur- 
roundings gave ample occupation to her active 
and observing mind. The immense work-shops 
were full of interest — the great ship-house, where 
a large ship-of-the-line was being built, the hun- 
dred of busy and skilled workmen coming and 
going at regular hours, the dry-dock, the ships, 


’beth’s promise. 


129 


the flowers, the late figs, purple and luscious; de- 
lightful little trips in the tug outside the harbor, 
sometimes a row on the river with her dear ones 
always near her, and, last of all, the ‘‘All’s well!’’ 
of the sentinels through the night, which fell, 
upon her ear like a blessing, filled every hour 
with strange enjoyment. But after it had all 
grown familiar, this dolce far niente style of liv- 
ing, and the sweet, dreamy air together, infected 
Aunt ’Beth with a certain degree of languor and 
made her fear that she was getting too well sat- 
isfied at having nothing to do — no cares, no plans 
to carry out through difficulties, nobody to man- 
age, to advise, to help or to scold. So, one day, 
after thinking it over and giving herself, morally, 
quite a shaking up, she went down to Anne and 
told her that if she did not let her help in some 
way about something — she didn’t care what — 
she’d pack up her trunks and go back to “El- 
lerslie,” where there were no end of things wait- 
ing to be done. “Indeed, my child, I am quite 
demoralized by this soft Southern way of living; 
the air is not good for me ; my energy seems to 
be oozing away with my breath,” she said, drop- 
ping into a chair and folding her small hands 
helplessly together. 

And Anne, after laughing at her explosion, 
told her that she could think of nothing except 
some shopping that had to be done, which she 
had put off from day to day, dreading the fatigue. 

“ Nothing fatigues me so much as idleness — 
5 


130 


’betii’s promise. 


but you are not idle, my dear; you are always 
doing something or other — not work it is ti ue, 
but you are occupied. Of course it would tire 
you to go about shopping, and I’ll be your factor 
must gladly while I am here.” Then followed a 
talk over what was to be got — lace edgings, em- 
broidery, silk, and linen cambric, to complete 
.^ome dainty little garments that were kept in a 
covered work-basket, with rose-leaves sprinkled 
plentifully between them. 

“Arthur has to go over to Norfolk to-day. 
Aunt ’Beth, to see about supplies or something, 
and he’ll show you the main street, where all the 
stores are. The steam-tug goes and comes every 
hour, and it will be a nice little jaunt for you.” 

“Anne, my love, if I were to stay here much 
longer you’d get a rattle and bells for me, I ex- 
pect — you seem to think amusement so necessary 
for me,” said Aunt ’Beth, in her quaint, quiet 
way. “I don’t want to be amused: I want to 
feel as if I had some purpose in life, and to be of 
use to somebody. ’ ’ 

Aunt ’Beth went, and was so successful that 
she afterwards made many trips to the old borough 
to make family purchases, serene in the conscious- 
ness that she was of some use, not only in select- 
ing with judgment, but in saving these poor in- 
experienced children from being cheated right 
and left. 

But one fatal day — fatal in its results to Aunt 
’Beth’s peace of mind — there was an urgent de- 


beth’s promise. 


13 ^ 

mand for certain articles that could only be pro- 
cured on the other side of the river. The steam- 
tug was out of order, and in the dock for repairs, 
the executive officer of the Yard and Lieut. - 
Commander Morley had gone to inspect some 
ships that were to be put into commission; the 
Commodore was in Washington, on business for 
the Department, and it was impossible to get 
either gig or barge, for want of somebody who 
had authority to give the order for one. But 
Aunt ’Beth had the faculty of making one thing 
do when another failed, and, being determined 
to attend to the matter in hand, proposed driv- 
ing into town and going across on the ferr^^- 
boat. 

“It’s the most direct route, and much nearei 
the stores,” said Anne, “but not always pleas- 
ant, owing to various reasons — sometimes they 
take over cattle, sometimes horses, or mules, to 
the Norfolk markets. I’m afraid to have you 
go.” 

“I’m not afraid. Tell them to get the car- 
riage round, my dear, while I run up and get 
my things on,” said the alert little woman. 

The ferry-boat was not crowded, and there 
were no cattle or horses on the deck. Aunt ’Beth 
was pleasantly seated by a chatty old woman 
with a sunbonnet on, where she had a wide view 
of the beautiful river up and down. Very soon 
her attention was attracted to a novel spec cade. 
It was a large brig, lying low in the water, hei 


132 


’bkth’s promise. 


deck unobstructed from bow to stern, and 
crowded with a motley assemblage of negroes, 
men, women and youths of both sexes — all gayly 
attired, some dancing to the music of violins 
and banjos, while others lounged in the sun, 
smoking, or, seated in groups, were laughing 
and talking, and mending old or fashioning new 
garments. It was a New Orleans slave-brig 
waiting to complete her cargo of negroes for the 
sugar plantations, the cotton-fields, and the rice- 
swamps of the far South, where this sort of 
“chattel’’ brought good prices at all times.* 
Aunt ’Beth, not knowing what it meant, looked 
approvingly on the festive scene, and wondered 
what happy occasion had brought so many of 
this dusky race together. 

“Them’s mighty merry, considerin’,” said 
the old woman in the sunbonnet. 

“Very. Perhaps they have been set free, and 
are going North!” 

“Free! laws!” exclaimed the woman, pushing 
back her sunbonnet, and laughing at Aunt 
’Beth’s verdant simplicity. “Why, that’s the 
New Orleans brig, and she’s waitin’ to git loaded 
up with niggers to sell South. They lets ’em 


* This is not introduced with any desire of rekindling old 
issues, but simply as a true and common incident peculiar to 
that region, and to times now happily belonging to the past; 
also to show the effects of the “system” upon one of tlie 
living characters of the story, opposed by lifelong prejudices 
lo it. A. H. I). 


’bkth’s promise. 


133 


have a good time, ez you see, so’s not to git dis- 
couraged and spile their good looks; but thar’s 
men thar with guns keepin’ guard, so’s none of 
’em ’ll git off.” 

Aunt ’Beth turned away suddenly, heart-sick, 
and tingling all over. She had run against it at 
last, this thing that she had always hated with 
such righteous indignation, but she wisely held 
her tongue — not knowing how far she might go 
if she should speak — and walked- back to the 
other end of the boat, out of sight of the slave- 
ship. She thought, as she stood leaning over the 
railing, while swift tears dripped over her old 
cheeks into the blue, sunny waves, that she 
would go straight back to ‘ ‘ Ellerslie. ” But no! 
she could not leave Anne now until all was well 
with her. 

The ferry-boat was at her wharf, and Aunt 
’Beth landed with the other passengers, and pro- 
ceeded to attend to the business which had 
brought her over. She dreaded going bark by 
the ferry; she would have avoided doing so at 
any cost, but she knew of no other way to get 
home, and the carriage would be waiting for her. 
Fortunately, she met one of the junior officers of 
the Navy Yard and his wife, who stopped to 
speak, and told her they had hired a nice row- 
boat to take them home, inviting her to go with 
them. She would have accepted gladly, but 
there was the carriage! She mentioned her diffi- 
culty, thanking them at the same time, but En- 


134 


bkth’s promisk. 


sign Moore told her if she preferred crossing 
with his wife, he would go by the ferry, and be 
only too glad of a ride in Mrs. Morley’s nice 
turn-out. ‘‘The fellows who are to row you 
over,” he said, “are steady and reliable, and 
you’ll be perfectly safe.” 

Aunt ’Beth, who would have been willing to 
start in a cockle-shell, so great was her horror of 
passing anywhere near the New Orleans brig, 
was glad to accede to the young officer’s plan. 
Having finished all that she had to do, she went 
down with them to the pier, and, to her great re- 
lief, they were soon on their way home, leaving 
the black plague-spot of the river farther and 
farther away with every pull of the oars. Ensign 
Moore got home in advance of the two ladies, 
and sent in word that Miss Morley had preferred 
coming over in the row-boat with his wife, 
which at once quieted the sudden uneasiness 
Anne felt when she heard that the carriage had 
arrived without her. A little later. Aunt ’Beth 
walked in with her arm full of dainty bundles^ 
pleasant and serene as usual, keeping back all 
that was disagreeable, and seemingly . intent on 
showing what she had brought. Well pleased 
that every article was “just the thing,” and pro- 
nounced “lovely,” she went to her room to lie 
down and rest. That evening, after dinner, 
Anne excused herself, and went into the library 
to write letters to her brothers, one of whom was 
on the coast of Africa, the other at a post on the 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


135 


Pacific slope; and to Bonrie Mere Hamilton, 
wlio, with her party, was spending the winter in 
Rome. Aunt ’Beth took the opportunity — after 
the servants had cleared off the table, and gone 
to tell her nephew what she had seen on the 
river that day, and give expression to her pent- 
up feelings on the subject of slavery. He could 
not agree with her extreme views, nor argue 
against principles which were fine in theory, 
but, as he viewed the subject, impracticable; 
and when he finally declared his firm belief that 
the negroes were better off in their present con- 
dition than they would be if free, she thought 
it useless to continue the discussion. She stood 
a moment, her countenance wearing a troubled 
expression, and passed her small hand several 
times over his hair, then kissed his forehead, 
and was turning to leave the room when he 
threw his arm about her and said : ‘ ‘ That means, 
‘He is joined to his idols; let him alone;’ doesn’t 
it. Aunt ’Beth?” 

“Yes. If you had lived at ‘Ellerslie,’ on your 
own acres, instead of going into the Navy, you 
would have escaped this moral contagion. Do 
not speak to Anne of my adventure to-day; it 
would only worry her. Now I must go, Arthur; 
I am really very tired.” He lighted her candle 
for her, kissed her good-night, and offered to 
carry her upstairs, and would have done it, had 
she not been a little too quick in escaping from 
the room. 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


136 

One day there was great joy in the Morle}'’s 
home — a deep, quiet, thankful joy — a “man-child 
was born to them” — a fair, healthy, perfect babe, 
whose presence awakened strangely mingled emo- 
tions in their hearts, lifting them nearer to Him 
who had confided this spotless sonl to their 
keeping; and with the mysterious tenderness 
which the first wail of its new life unsealed, a 
sense of responsibilty stole upon them, which 
tempered their joy into an almost silent thought- 
fulness. 

The day that the little stranger was four weeks 
old, it was arranged that he should be taken over 
to the church in Portsmouth to be baptized. 
Half hidden in clouds of rare lace that ornamented 
his swaddling clothes, and wrapped in a white, 
satin-lined cloak of richly embroidered cashmere, 
the babe lay sleeping in his proud young mother’s 
arms, as fair a picture as one of Fra Angelico’s 
ideals, while Arthur Morley and Aunt ’Beth 
looked on, worshipping, not as did the shepherds 
or the wise men of old, who offered gifts to the 
Divine Babe, but with all the simple, natural 
human love their hearts were capable of. 

The good clergyman met them in the church, 
and conducted them to the baptismal font, and 
when everything was ready for the ceremony to 
begin, he asked who were going to stand as spon- 
sors for the child. They had not thought of this. 
Morley did not understand; Aunt ’Beth had heard 
of godfathers and godmothers, but had not the 


’bkth’s promise. 


137 


sliglitest idea of their spiritual significance in a 
ceremony like this, and whispered to Anne that 
she would stand for the child. 

“The godmother must be a Catholic, I be^ 
lieve,” returned Anne, also in a whisper. 

“The fact is. Father,” said Arthur Morley, “my 
wife is the only Catholic of the family. Is it ab- 
solutely necessary to have sponsors?” 

“Yes, when possible. But I think I can ar- 
range it, if you will not object,” said Father 
O’Meara. 

“We leave it entirely to you. Father; only 
make the boy a good Christian, however it’s to 
be done. ’ ’ 

“There is a lady here, madame, in the sacristy, 
who is the President of our Sanctuary Society,” 
said the good clergyman, addressing the young 
mother, “who will, I am sure, willingly stand 
as the child’s godmother, and I will be his god- 
father. ’ ’ 

“A perfect stranger, Anne,” whispered Aunt 
’Beth; “I wouldn’t have her.” 

“Never mind; it is only a form, you know,” 
said Arthur, who overheard her — which showed 
how much he knew about the matter. 

Anne herself, owing to her defective religious 
education, knew very little about it either, be- 
yond the fact that baptism was the first neces- 
sary step to be taken to make her child a Cath- 
olic. The lady consented, and came back with 
the priest, who introduced her to the party as 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


138 

Mrs. Grantly. Taking the babe from his 
mother’s arms, she held it tenderly in her own, 
the ceremony proceeded, and the child became 
one of the fold of Christ, marked with His sign, 
anointed with chrism, and liberated, in the 
Name of the Most Holy Trinity, from the thral- 
dom and stain of original sin. Anne had 
scanned the face of her child’s godmother jeal- 
ously at first, but when she noted its patient, 
saintly expression, the tender, motherly light in 
her eyes, her heart went out to her, and she felt 
perfectly reconciled to the new relation so unex- 
pectedly established between them, complete 
strangers as they were to each other. When the 
ceremony was ended, and her babe was returned 
to its mother, she thanked Mrs. Grantly in her 
own winning way, and told her that, her boy 
now having a claim upon her, she hoped that 
she would be kind enough to come often to see 
them, which the good lady promised to do. 
Arthu'r also thanked her and the good priest; 
while Aunt ’ Beth, feeling that there was nothing 
for her to say, behaved only as a well-bred lady 
should to strangers with whom she was acciden- 
tally made acquainted. But there was a little 
aside which Arthur Morley had with Father 
O’Meara, which none of them noticed. He drew 
him apart, and told him he believed that there 
was a large number of his congregation em- 
ployed at the Navy Yard, and if any occasion 
arose in which he could be of use, to call upon 


’beth’s promise. 


139 


him: then bade him good-day, leaving a well- 
filled purse in the hand he had just grasped, say- 
ing: “For your poor;’’ and jumping into the 
carriage, they drove off. It was a blessed day 
for Father O’Meara; he was that morning with- 
out a penny, and wondered whence and how help 
could come. He had implored the assistance of 
Our Blessed Lady of Perpetual Succor, who had 
heard his petitions and pitied the necessities of 
her poor flock by sending him a far larger sum 
than his present need required, and also a friend 
who had promised his influence in case any dif- 
ficulties should arise between the chief workmen 
at the Yard and his people. 

Aunt ’Beth had thought the baptism of little 
Arthur a species of jugglery, but she said noth- 
ing about it, seeing that he flourished and waxed 
fat and strong; and, being a generous soul, she 
soon began to tolerate, and then to like, his god- 
mother, Mrs. Grantly, who was again invited, 
and came quite frequently to see him. She felt 
now that, with so safe and kind a friend to leave 
with Anne and the boy, she might think of 
going back to ‘ ‘ Ellerslie. ’ ’ But Arthur and his 
wife entreated her to remain until spring, telling 
her that the winter up there, after this pleasant, 
mild climate, would kill her. But she didn’t 
think so, as she had been accustomed to severe 
winters all her life; on the contrary, she thought 
if she remained South any longer her health 
would break down. But they would hear of no 


140 ’beth’s promise. 

such ‘‘nonsense,” and promised her, if she would 
'Stay, that they would come the following sum-* 
mer, and bring the baby to “Ellerslie” — “Won’t 
we, Arthur ? ’ ’ pleaded Anne. 

“Yes, of course we shall! Nothing would 
please me so well as to get away from the salt 
water a little while,” he answered. 

“Very well. I’ll consider it; you must give 
me two weeks to think it over, and to hear from 
my agent and Mrs. Trott, for I’m so sure that 
things have been going heels over head since I 
came away, that it will take a regiment of horses 
to bring my affairs back to order. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t believe a word of it. Aunt ’Beth; you 
don’t either,” said Anne, laughing. 

‘ ‘ But I do, and that makes a difference, you 
see. I’ve been playing Lady High Horse long 
enough, and I want to be doing something use- 
ful.” 

“As if you were not always doing something 
useful!”, said Arthur Morley, stretching out his 
arm to scoop her up, perhaps to his shoulder; but 
she was too quick for him, and placed a chair 
between them before he got near enough. He 
never ventured to tussle with Aunt ’Beth, not 
thinking it respectful, so he stood leaning against 
the mantel-piece, looking innocent of all mis- 
chief. 

“Useful, do you think? If fiddling around 
the house, and hunting up fid-fads in the shops 
for Anne and the Grand Llama, can be called 


’bkth’s promise. 


useful occupations, then I admit tliat my time 
has been well spent,’’ returned Aunt ’Beth, 
laughing. 

Several friends dropped in, one after another, 
and the conversation was discontinued, but the 
Morleys felt sure that she would not leave them 
until spring. 


142 


^beth’s promise. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE YEARS ROLE ON. 

Aunt ’Beth was half inclined to yield to the 
wish of Arthur Morley and his wife to remain 
with them until the spring. She was scarcely 
conscious of the strong hold that “the boy,” as 
every one called the baby, was gaining upon her. 
She thought she had very common-sense views 
about bringing up children, and was full of wise 
saws as to how he should be managed, and in- 
sisted that his will and temper should be brought 
into subjection from the start. She looked on 
calmly, and never fondled him as the others did; 
but notwithstanding all her efforts to conceal it, 
she showed by a thousand little attentions, and 
in various ways, that ‘ ‘ the boy ’ ’ had entered 
into her heart and reigned king. The Morleys 
had many a quiet laugh over it all, but they were 
well satisfied. 

Within a few days of the expiration of the two 
weeks she had taken to decide the question of 
staying where she was, or going back to “El- 
lerslie” — and had almost decided to remain — 
she drove into town one morning, at the request 
of her nephew, to buy a lot of provisions and 
other necessaries for the family of one of the 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


143 


workmen, who had fallen from a high scaffold- 
ing and lost his life, leaving a wife and little 
ones entirely destitute. Aunt ’Beth was in her 
true element on such a mission of charity as this, 
and entered upon it with zeal. Having com- 
pleted her purchases, and directed that every- 
thing should be sent as soon as possible to the 
address she had given, she stepped out of the 
store to enter the carriage and visit the afflicted 
family, to ascertain if she could be of any further 
use. The carriage was on the other side of the 
street, under the trees, and while waiting an in- 
stant to catch the eye of the coachman, her at- 
tention was attracted by groups of silent men 
and women here and there on the sidewalks; 
then by a chorus of voices which rose and fell 
in a wild, pathetic chant, and seemed to come 
from a cloud of dust that was moving slowly 
down the street, towards her. She thought it 
was a procession of laborers on their way to a 
funeral ; but now they were passing quite near, 
and to her horror she saw that it was a large 
band of negroes, the men handcuffed together in 
couples, also the women and young girls, among 
them some beautiful quadroons. Most of them 
were barefooted; some looked surly, others defi- 
ant, some indifferent — all of them marching 
under guard of the slave-drivers, who were 
mounted, and rode up and down the line — keep- 
ing step to the old plantation ditty they were 
singing. 


bath’s promise. 


“Where are they going?’’ asked Aunt ’Beth 
of a negro man standing near. She spoke under 
her breath, with suppressed indignation, while a 
great throb of pain in her heart nearly choked 
her. 

“To the brig, missis,” answered the man, in 
a low tone. 

‘ ‘ What have they got them chained for ? My 
God! look at those mothers, those beautiful 
young girls!” she exclaimed, forgetting all cau- 
tion. 

“They have to do it, missis, to keep ’em from 
runnin’ off, or killin’ themselves. Sometimes 
they does that,” said the man, in the same quiet 
tones. 

“And no wonder! It is an outrage against hu- 
manity! Oh, my God! how long will such things 
be! Here, my man, here’s a quarter; run over to 
that carriage on the other side of the street and 
tell the coachman to come here immediately.” 
She felt that she would not be able to hold her 
peace if she remained, and would have to cry 
out aloud “in the market place” against this 
terrible outrage on nature and humanity. 

“Who is that crazy woman?” asked a rough- 
looking man of another, both of them having 
overheard the conversation. 

“Abolitionist, sure! ” returned the other, with 
a loud, coarse laugh. ‘ ‘ Hurry up, old gal, and 
git out quick. ” 

No need to hurry her. The carriage had 


’bkth’s promise. 145 

driven round in the rear of the procession, and 
she had gone swiftly to meet it. Cat-calls and 
shouts followed, and a crowd of roughs were 
rushing towards her, but not in time to harm 
her, for she had sprung into the carriage, snapped 
to the door and ordered the coachman to drive 
off immediately — which he, frightened half 
to death, did at full speed. Aunt ’Beth leaning, 
white, against the cushions, her heart full of the 
great injustice she had looked upon. 

“ It is no use to make a scene, ’ ’ she argued 
with herself, as she got in sight of home; ‘‘if I 
say all there is in me to say against this nefa- 
rious, criminal traffic, it will only make Arthur 
and his wife uncomfortable, for they have no lot 
or part in it. All that’s left for me to do is to 
get out of it; and I’ll go right up to my room 
the moment I get home and begin to pack, so 
that I can get off by the boat to-morrow night. ’ ’ 
To say was to do, with Aunt ’Beth. She told 
the Morleys that night that she was going home, 
then quietly related what had happened, as she 
found that the coachman had already given his 
master a garbled and exaggerated statement of 
the affair. No persuasions or pleadings could 
change her purpose. “I have been very 
happy with you, my dears — with you and ‘ the 
boy,’ ” she said, her lip and chin trembling ; 
“but it is only wasting breath to say another 
word. I should stifle here, after what I have 
Been, or be mobbed, as I was near being to-day. 


146 


’bkth's promise. 


It it best for us all that I should go now. I can 
do nothing against existing evils, the thojight of 
which harrows my very soul. Next summer 
you will all come to me at ‘Ellerslie.’ ” Tears 
were shed, farewells spoken, some charitable 
commissions and a generous sum of money 
placed in Anne’s hand, for Father O’Meara to 
distribute among the needy of his flock, then 
Aunt ’Beth shook the dust of slavery from her 
feet, and turned her face homeward. On arriv- 
ing she found, contrary to her forebodings, that 
during her absence everything had gone on with 
the regularity of clock-work, in the house de- 
partment and upon the farm; there was no 
speck or flaw to hang a complaint on, which af- 
forded her such satisfaction that she persuaded 
the Widow Trott to remain with her so long as 
she could feel satisfied at ‘‘EllersHe,” and gave 
her manager permission to have an addition 
built to his house, a favor that he had been per- 
suading her for the last year or two to grant. 

Years passed on — years of mingled joy and 
grief to the Morleys. Their darling boy glad- 
dened their lives for three blissful years, then 
died of some sudden disease — passed from them 
as if some great angel of God had swooped down 
out of the heavens, darkening the sunshine with 
its mighty wings, and snatched him from their 
arms, bearing him far out of sight, beyond that 
thin but impenetrable veil which no mortal eye 
can pierce. Grieving for her first-born, it was 


’beth's promise. 


147 


many, many long, weary days before Anne Mor- 
ley could be comforted; she rebelled against the 
will of God in removing her child, and in her 
soul called it a cruel decree; she fed upon her 
grief, and lived only with the memories of her 
dead, seeking no consolation in religion, and 
closing her eyes to the solace that faith would 
have revealed. It was a selfish sorrow, that took 
no heed of one as deep that was being borne 
with silent endurance by her husband, for her 
sake, until his pale countenance and heavy eyes 
betrayed many a sleepless vigil, and the heavi- 
ness of his heart; then she felt how cruel she 
had been not to share his sorrow, and give to 
him at least the tender cares which would have 
gone far towards filling up the empty place in 
his heart. 

Two or three years, with their flowers and bird- 
songs, their snows and stormy winds, rolled over 
the little grave, and the beautiful boy now lived 
as a fair dream in the memory of Anne Morley 
and her husband, a vision just hovering on the 
border-land of reality, as sad as it was fair. It is 
true that ‘ ‘ troubles never come alone, ’ ’ and the 
young mother was just getting over her grief, and 
beginning to renew her interest in life, and feel 
that there was yet happiness on earth for her, 
when new!; came one day that Frank Hamilton, 
her brave, handsome brother, had been killed in 
a skirmish with hostile Indians, while out on 
a scouting expedition. A few months later, a 


t 48 


’beth’s promise. 


morning paper announced the loss of the United 
States sloop of war ‘ ‘Shark, ’ ’ commanded by Cap- 
tain Henry Hamilton — officers and crew perishecL 
The last seen of her, she was reported as scud- 
ding under bare poles in the neighborhood ol 
the Bahama banks. Soon after, the hurricane 
must have struck her. That was all : no vestige 
of her was afterwards seen, not one of her brave 
crew ever returned to tell the tale; no line from 
the deep ever drifted ashore to relieve the aching, 
weary hearts that for weeks and months expected 
their return, in the vain hope that they had in 
some way been saved. Vain indeed! for it was 
said that the “Shark,” with her heavy cannon 
and closed hatches, had gone to the bottom, 
where an eternal calm holds all that reaches it, 
until “the sea shall give up its dead.” How 
had they lived, these two spirited, brave young 
fellows who had been educated without proper 
religious training? They were known as Catho- 
lics, and good fellows; their classmates, and 
friends wherever made, loved them; but how had 
they died? The doom of both was sudden; had 
they time to utter that one fervent, true, and sav- 
ing prayer of contrition, which Infinite Mercy 
may accept at the very last? Who could tell? 
After the first shock of grief had passed, Anne had 
masses said tor their repose, and offered more 
than one communion to the same end. Through- 
out their married life. Commander Morley — he 
had gone up another grade in the service — had 


’bkth’s promise:. 


149 


been true to all the promises he had made his wife 
about her religion; he never knowingly laid a 
straw in the way of her observance of its prac- 
tices, and invariably showed a degree of respect 
for it, which was mistaken by some for a leaning 
towards it which would one day bring him into 
the Church. But nothing was further from his 
thoughts; in fact, the subject was one of utter in- 
difference to him; only, inasmuch as his wife was 
a Catholic he felt in honor bound, and for her 
sake, to tolerate her belief with every outward 
show of respect. So far, this was well enough ; 
but she — not too strongly grounded in the vital 
principles of her faith — needed peculiarly all the 
helps that a oneness of belief between them 
would have given her. There were a thousand 
influences pervading her daily life which tended 
to enervate and weaken that Arm cleaving to the 
practices of her religion so essential to one under 
such circumstances. Her husband was true, hon- 
orable, and altogether perfect in her eyes; ‘‘how, 
then,” she sometimes asked herself, “could his 
becoming a Catholic make him better?” Was he 
not a man of clean life, good to the poor, and tol- 
erant of the errors of others, and altogether sans 
peur^ sans reproche? Why, then, when he was so 
liberal in sentiment, and so kind to her, so con- 
siderate in everything relating to her belief and 
pract ice, should she make him uncomfortable by 
discussions which would make him think that a 
difference in faith was making her unhappy ? 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


^50 

No: it would neither be fair nor generous of her^ 
and she would let him see, although a Catholic, 
she could be as liberal as he was. Anne Mor- 
ley’s highest earthly happiness was in her hus- 
band’s companionship, and occasionally, instead 
of going to Mass on Sundays, she remained at 
home to hear him read from some book in which 
he was deeply interested, to enjoy a long walk 
with him, or sit with him in the library listening 
to his delightful talks about things and places 
he had seen abroad; or, best of all, hearing his 
plans for their future, when, having retired from 
the service, he would take her home to dear old 
‘‘Ellerslie” to live. In the circles which the 
Morleys frequented — in Philadelphia, where they 
were now stationed — there were few, if any Cath- 
olics ; so that she was quite cut off from those as- 
sociations which, by the force of example, would 
at least have kept her in mind of her religious 
obligations. They were all refined and cultured 
people, her husband’s old friends, who had 
known him ever since he was a young ensign, 
on the staff of the Admiral’s flag-ship, which 
had wintered near their beautiful city. Time 
and again they had received her with the most 
flattering courtesies, and admired and made 
much of her. In the midst of surroundings all 
pleasant and delightful to the egotism and latent 
vanity of human nature, is it strange that she 
should have forgotten holydays of obligation, 
feasts, fasts, and festivals? Now and then, the 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 151 

memory of her baby and of her brothers took 
possession of her, when, 

. . . Impetuous with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 

Her swelling heart heaved, moaning like the ocean, 
That cannot rest ; ” 

and she sought the Sacraments, as one flying to 
a city of refuge, for help and solace; then, the 
storm having passed, she would again lapse into 
delusive calm, satisfied with what she had done. 
Conscience was not silent; when is this inexora- 
ble angel of the soul ever silent ? But she knew 
how to temporize and answer its whisperings in 
a way that quieted her scruples. ‘ ‘ It is my 
duty,” she would say, ”to make my husband’s 
life happy; and when is he so happy as when I 
am with him ? How can I, after all his kind- 
ness about my religion, be running off to church, 
leaving him alone at the very time he most 
wants me? I shall not do it! By and by, when 
he goes off* to sea, I mean to be very good, and 
attend regularly to my duties. ’ ’ But while she 
thought that she was sacrificing herself to her 
mistaken ideas of duty, she was only obeying 
her own secret inclinations. 

At last a day came when, his term of shore 
duty having expired, Arthur Morley was ordered 
to sea in command of the ship that took him out 
to join the Asiatic squadron. It can be imag- 
ined how bitter the separation was between 
hearts so united and so blindly devoted to one 


152 


'BKTH’S promise. 


another as were these two, and it is therefore 
useless to dwell upon it. Anne was very heart- 
sore and despondent. She had hung a medal of 
our Blessed Lady around his neck the day he left 
her, and the next morning received Holy Com- 
munion, which she offered fervently for his 
safety, not discerning how entirely human her 
motive was. But her grief made her restless, 
friends thronged around, but failed to cheer her; 
everything reminded her too much of her hus- 
band. Sometimes she almost fancied she heard 
his footsteps, and turned her head towards the 
door, only to remember how many thousand 
miles of water were between them; then she 
would drop her face in her hands and have a 
good cry. She could not stand it, and deter- 
mined to have all her furniture and household 
goods stored, give up her house, and go to 
‘‘Ellerslie,” where she would have a willing lis- 
tener whenever she wanted to talk of her absent 
one, in Aunt ’Beth, who was so near and dear to 
him, and who, in turn, would tell her a thousand 
interesting things about him, of which she had 
a store. Did Anne Morley forget that there was 
no Catholic church within ten miles of ‘ ‘ Ellers- 
lie” — most of the people who inhabited that re- 
gion being Lutherans and Presbyterians — and 
how almost impossible it would be to “attend 
regularly to her duties,” as she had promised 
herself to do when her husband went on his 
next cruise ? 


’beth’s promise. 


153 


Aunt ’ Beth received her with open arms, and 
warm, welcoming words, but was pained to see 
that the roses had faded out of her cheeks and 
the light out of her beautiful eyes, that her step 
was languid, and that the only interest she 
showed in life was when she was talking or 
hearing of her husband. “This will never do!” 
thought Aunt ^Beth; “brooding over a thing 
that can’t be helped! It is not a healthy condi 
tion of mind for any human being to indulge 
in. ’ ’ Then this indefatigable midget of a woman 
began to tax her ingenuity to invent little occu 
pations for her guest, and awakened in her a 
certain interest in them, by declaring that it 
would be the greatest help in the world to her if 
she would only take them in hand, which she 
did, languidly at first, but found, in a day or 
two, greatly to her own surprise, that they inter- 
ested and diverted her mind from her despond- 
ency. After awhile, long and loving letters 
began to come over the seas, at regular intervals, 
which cheered and comforted her; and as her 
health improved in the pure, bracing air of 
‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ she began to measure the time as it 
passed, and to look forward with bright antici- 
pations towards the end of the cruise, when her 
husband would be restored to her. But some- 
times there would be a delay in getting her let- 
ters; then, sad and silent, she would imagine all 
sorts of dreadful things — cyclones, wreck, dis- 
aster, or perhaps sickness and death. On one of 


154 


’beth’s promise. 


these occasions, Aunt ’Beth felt herself called 
upon to reason with her in her terse, wholesome 
way about the folly of ‘‘borrowing trouble.” 

“But I have had so much trouble. Aunt ’Beth, 
for one so young! — how can I help it?” she an- 
swered, in despondent tones. “First of all, my 
baby died; then my brothers; and now separated 
from Arthur — oh. Aunt ’Beth! why shouldn’t I 
feel afraid?” 

“It’s tempting Providence to be making moans 
over the living. You didn’t expect Arthur was 
going to sail ships over dry land when you mar- 
ried him; and although I hate his being a sailor, 
I wouldn’t have him resign until he gets to the 
top of his profession. All trials are disagreeable; 
but I tell you, my child, when they belong to the 
past they are gone from us, and it is as senseless 
to be moaning over them as it is in a child to cry 
for a star. So cheer up, Anne ; you have Arthur 
and your old Aunt ’Beth, and no end of time to 
do good in. Look forward towards the happy 
future awaiting you, and stop fretting. ’ ’ 

“It is all true what you say. Aunt ’Beth; but 
I can’t help it; it is my nature, I suppose,” she 
said, almost in tears. 

“If it’s your nature, then the sooner you be- 
gin to fight your nature the better for your hap- 
piness,” burst out Aunt ’Beth; “a rational crea- 
ture has no right to let nature hold her in lead- 
ing-strings. Come now, Anne; let’s see what 
trying to do a little good for other people will do 
for you. ” 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 155 

‘"'How can I do good, Aunt ’Beth?” she asked, 
sadly. 

”In ten thousand ways! there is good to be 
done to somebody, in some way; for something 
or other is always lying around loose for some 
hand to take up and put through. You can be- 
gin now by sewing up the seams of this skirt for 
old Mrs. Pentz, down by the mill.” 

‘‘Give it to me. Aunt ’Beth,” said Anne, an 
involuntary smile dimpling her cheeks. “I’ll 
sew up all the seams you’ll give me.” 

“There are other things to do besides sewing 
up seams. There’s that ignorant little Arab that 
I found, half starved and astray, on the roadside, 
the other day. I scooped her up and brought her 
home, but I have not had time yet to see any- 
thing more about her than to have her washed 
and put into warm clothes. In fact, I think she 
does nothing but eat, and play with the dogs. 
Take her in hand, and try to civilize her by 
teaching her something; you could not find bet- 
ter work,” said Aunt ’Beth. 

“I’m afraid it will be like the task of Her- 
cules; but I’ll try,” replied Anne, amused and 
interested in spite of herself. 

It had occasionally occurred to Aunt ’Beth as 
something rather strange that Anne had ex- 
pressed no desire since she had come to “Ellers- 
lie” to go to church — her own church — which, 
it was true, was ten miles off; but what of that, 
when there were a carriage and a pair of fast- 


’beth’s promise. 


15 ^ 

trotting horses to take her to it? She knew 
Anne was a Catholic ; at least she supposed she 
was still one, having heard of no change; and, 
if so, she wondered why she didn’t get more 
comfort and courage out of her religion! But 
perhaps she herself had been remiss in not offer- 
ing the carriage to her, and even accompanying 
her; but, not being religious herself, she always 
felt a delicacy about making suggestions to other 
people. However, she determined that she 
would on the following Sunday make the at- 
tempt; and if it failed, then she would feel no 
reproaches of conscience about it. - 

The day after the conversation related above, 
Anne’s letters came — bright, fond letters from 
Arthur, filled with all the tenderness that her 
heart craved, and a great deal more relating to 
the strange world he was visiting, its old wonder- 
ful civilization, and the customs of its remarka- 
ble people, which interested her greatly. She 
and Aunt ’Beth read them again and again, 
talked and pored over them, rejoicing that all was 
well with the writer; that there had been no cy- 
clone, no wreck, disaster, nor sickness. On the 
contrary, the voyage so far had been uninterrupt- 
edly pleasant, which gave the writer an oppor- 
tunity for a few remarks about the “folly of fret- 
ting when there was nothing to fret about;’ ^ all 
of which was taken very amiably, for the young 
wife’s heart was relieved of its anxiety and dread, 
and she could afford to take Aunt ’Beth’s aflfec- 


’beth’s promise. 


157 


tionate chaffing with a smile. Then two happy 
days were spent in answering the letters, writing 
steadily from morning until night — taking care 
to write cheerfully, which she knew would please 
him — and thinking nothing concerning Aunt 
’ Beth and herself, and all that was going on at 
“Ellerslie,” too insignificant to relate — a lettei 
laden with love and devotion, which was at 
last finished and sent away to Hong-Kong. 
She had forgotten all about Aunt ’Beth’s Arab, 
and it was Sunda}^ The drive to church was 
proposed — as planned by Miss Morley — and as 
it was a lovely, crisp, frosty day, Anne seemed 
only too glad to go, and they started immedi- 
ately after breakfast. But, oh, the roads! cor- 
duroy roads up hill and down dale, that jolted 
and racked Anne Morley’ s tenderly nurtured 
sensitive frame until she cried out, hurt and 
bruised, at every step of the way. Aunt ’Beth 
was so light and small that she only bounced, 
not seeming to mind it in the least, except 
once when she began to say something, and a 
more vigorous jolt than any they had yet endured 
snapped her teeth together on the end of her 
tongue, which nqt only pained severely, but bled 
freely. When they got to the poor, miserable 
little chapel erected near the iron works, it was 
crowded with laborers and their wives; the 
benches were all occupied ; Mass had begun, and 
Aunt ’Beth and Anne had to kneel on the bare 
floor, among a number of men and women poorjy 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


155 

clad, who seemed devoutly intent on the Divine 
Mystery of the altar, whispering their prayers, 
some telling their beads, with simple faith and 
fervor — as if, having got into their Father’s 
house once more, they meant to tell Him all 
that was in their hearts. After Mass, the clergy- 
man who officiated turned to address a few words 
of mingled encouragement, rebuke, and cheer to 
his people; his face showed lines of care and 
toil; his words were simple and strong; and he 
spoke with a brogue which, to Aunt ’Beth, 
sounded barbarous. But there was unction and 
divine truth in all he said; his apostolate among 
the rude flocks spread here and there through his 
mission had been full of hardship, privation, and 
conflict, but he knew he had won their hearts; 
and they knew him, they heard him as a father, 
and sought with simple mind to obey him in all 
that pertained to the good of their souls. Even 
the turbulent ones among them yielded in a de- 
gree to his sway; they knew that he had the 
courage of a lion, and respected him for it; and 
while they did not give up all their evil habits, 
they were more peaceful towards their families 
and neighbors. It was an humble, but heroic 
life he led, braving dangers of sea and land, 
under the burning suns of summer, and through 
the bitter and frequently almost impassable snows 
of winter, sometimes really in want of the com- 
monest necessaries of life, and often sorely spent 
with fatigue: a life as precious in the sight of 


’bkth’s promise. 


159 


God as if he had been lapped in luxury, clothed 
ir jewelled dalmatics, and daily pouring forth the 
burning eloquence of exalted genius to listening 
thousands of the great, the wise, and the noble 
of the earth. But Anne was half dead with 
fatigue; she could only whisper a few Aves^ with 
an effort to do so devoutly; and Aunt ’Beth, al- 
most as tired, heartily wished it was over, and 
they on their way home. At last the congrega- 
tion was dismissed, and, being near the door, 
they escaped without being jostled and crowded, 
pausing only long enough to drop a generous 
contribution into the poor-box. They hurried 
away to the carriage, thankful to escape and turn 
their faces homeward. Aunt ’Beth did not com- 
plain, but she was very tired and very grim. 
The whole thing had been Greek to her; but to 
Anne, it was the one same Sacrifice she used to 
assist at with so much fervor and emotion in the 
grand cathedrals abroad — only here it was the 
loneliness of Christ in His poverty, while there, 
He was throned in royal splendors. Did she in- 
deed realize that it was one and the same adora- 
ble Divine Mystery? The fatigue and jolting 
made her feverish, and she was not well enough 
to leave her bed for a day or two. After this, 
nothing more was said about going to the little 
church ten miles away. When quite recovered, 
Anne, true to her promise, took in hand the 
young gypsy Aunt ’Beth had spoken of, and 
found her, with her quaint, wild ways, as amins- 


i6o ’beth’s promise. 

ing as she was perplexing; but little by little, 
with coaxing, presents, and indulgence, she got 
a certain control over her, which made her task 
more easy. 

We should be glad to linger longer at ‘‘EHers- 
lie, ’ ’ the sweet, peaceful home of a race whose 
record showed no stain; but our limits forbid it. 
Anne Morley remained with Aunt ’Beth until 
her husband’s return, soon after which they re- 
moved to Boston. They established their home 
in the fairest part of the city, and were soon sur- 
rounded by the best of social and cultured asso- 
ciations. Rarely indeed do human beings enjoy 
such felicity as these two found in each other’s 
society after their long separation. In the sweet 
quiet and pure air of ‘ ‘ EHerslie, ” Anne had 
grown strong, and with perfect health had 
ripened into wonderful loveliness. Proud of the 
admiration she excited. Captain Morley urged 
her to go into society more than she had pre- 
viously done — to visit the opera and theatrical 
entertainments, and whatever amusement prom- 
ised enjoyment. It was all novel and delightful, 
this new phase of her existence; she gave her 
past, with its sorrows, no more tears; only now 
and then a transient sadness swept, like a shadow 
of a cloud, over her, when memories of her lost 
and loved rose, phantom-like, in her thoughts or 
dreams. She arrayed herself in rich attire and 
jewels, always in good taste, but very elegant, 
tal ing a strange delight in her own beauty, and 


’bkth’s promise. 


i6i 


in the effects produced by her rare toilettes, “It 
makes my husband proud of me — it pleases him 
t© see me adorn myself in this way, and go into 
society with him,” she whispered now and then 
to her conscience; “he enjoys such things, and 
I have no right to deprive him of them by re- 
maining at home.” It was true, he was glad to 
see her beautiful — richly dressed, and admired; 
but had he imagined for an instant that she was 
indifferent to it all, he would have been satisfied 
to have lived more quietly at home with her and 
his books, and in the society of a few chosen 
friends; but he believed sincerely that she was 
heartily enjoying herself, as in fact she was. 
Anne gave but little thought to religious mat- 
ters nowadays, consequently there was nothing 
to restrain her; she was by nature one of those 
whose hearts readily and willingly exult in the 
glories of Tabor, but shrink and fly away from 
the gloom of Calvary; her aesthetic tastes en- 
joyed, and were gratified beyond expression, by 
the splendid solemnities of her faith, the mag- 
nificent music, superb altars, the rich vestments, 
and clouds of incense, as she had seen them 
abroad in the great cathedrals of carven marble; 
ill fact, there had always been a great deal of 
shallow poetic sentimentality in her religious 
ideas and impressions, instead of that deep, vital 
principle that is the outgrowth of a religious ed- 
ucation, which Anne Morley never had. She 
was too young when her mother died to remem- 
6 


i 62 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


ber the pious lessons she had taught her; liei 
education had been a godless one, and her lot 
had been cast among those who professed a vari- 
ety of creeds, or no creed at all ; indeed, religion 
would at one time have gradually become a myth 
to her, had she not been obliged while at board- 
ing school to attend a fashionable church with 
the others, having it impressed upon her mind 
that it was as necessary a part of her education 
as music or dancing, to learn how to walk up 
the aisle with grace, and behave decorously in 
her pew; it was the proper thing, her teacher 
informed her, and one which society would ex- 
pect of her. Is it any wonder that so grave re- 
sults should have followed, that her faith was 
not to her a firm, deeply-rooted principle, or 
that she wore it so lightly as to put it off and on, 
according to the caprice of circumstances? 
Rather, is it not strange that, with all the dis- 
advantages under which her life had been passed, 
even a spark of faith had been left to her? And 
yet she always called herself a Catholic, and in 
her inmost heart retained a tender devotion to 
the Blessed Virgin, whom she had learned to 
love far away in the past, with her head nestling 
against her mother’s breast 

One day, soon after the Morleys settled in Bos- 
ton, they were at a reception, at which the elite 
of fashion and intellect were present. A lady 
asked Mrs. Morley what church she would at- 
tend, excusing the question by observing, ‘‘If 


’BETH’S I'ROMISE. 


163 


she had not quite made up her mind, she wished 
to offer Captain Morley and herself seats in hei 
pew at Trinity.” 

‘ ‘ I intend going to the Catholic church — I am a 
Catliolic you know — but thank you very much, all 
the same,” she answered, pleasantly. The looks 
of astonishment and the silence that followed 
surprised her — also glances that swiftly passed 
between several ladies standing around her; 
she did not know what it meant then, but she 
understood it perfectly when she went to Mass 
on Sunday. The church was old, dingy, and 
small, its four square walls and eight glaring 
windows unrelieved by pictures of saints and 
martyrs, unstained by riclily-hued delineations of 
sacred things. There was the altar, with lights, 
and bouquets of tawdry muslin flowers; there was 
the crucifix, and a poor painting of the Mater 
Dolorosa behind and above it; but everything be- 
tokened poverty. And this was then the Cathe- 
dral, sounding grandly, and giving one visions 
of space and splendor, its title derived from the 
Bishop’s chair which stood on the right of the 
altar, worn and shabby, like all around it. The 
congregation was' composed of plain, rough-look- 
ing people, very devout, but not a fashionable 
person among them. Servant girls, warm and 
glowing with the faith they had imbibed with 
their mother’s milk in the old Island of Saints 
beyond the wide seas, knelt there in numbers, ar- 
rayed in their gay and somewhat “loud ’’holiday 


164 


’beth^s promise. 


finery; st range-looking old women, wrapped in 
great plaid woolen shawls, although the weathei 
was melting, their honest, wrinkled faces show- 
ing the wear and tear of toilsome, weary years, 
their labor-hardened hands ungloved; men in 
the coarse habiliments of poverty, and others 
whose sleek garments, which set uneasily upon 
them, indicated prosperity; and scrubby-looking 
boys, not over clean in their persons, filled the 
pews — the advance army of the Ivord who planted 
the Faith in “Boston-town,’’ and erected the 
banner of the Cross above the graves of the Pur- 
itans. Anne Morley was disgusted at finding 
herself in a crowd of “low, ignorant people;” the 
plain, simple sermon fell upon “ears that heard 
not;” she followed the Mass without devotion, 
said a few languid Aves^ and made up her mind 
to come no more. She told her annoyance to her 
husband, whom she found waiting at the door for 
her when she went out. He laughed at her, and 
promised to make some inquires about the other 
Catholic churches in Boston, and hoped to be 
able to find one that it would be more agreeable 
to attend. But his quest was in vain. The 
same class of people formed the congregations of 
the other two, which were situated in outlying 
parts of the city; and a friend to whom he con- 
fided his difficulties told him that to attend any- 
one of them would be to lose caste in tlie best 
Boston circles.* Captain Morley, with all his 


* A real experience of many years ago. 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


165 


fine, noble traits, was but human, and heie his 
one weakness cropped out. He hated to do 
anything that appeared odd or conspicuous, and 
was far more sensitive about his wife being 
placed in such a position than himself. He re- 
ported to her what he had heard, remarking: 
‘Hf you have no objections, darling, I shall be 
much pleased if you will refrain from attending 
those churches while we are in Boston; in fact,” 
he added, ‘ ‘ I ask it as a favor to myself that you 
either remain at home with me, or that we go to 
‘ Trinity ’ together. I have been going with you 
ever since we were married, and I really fail to 
see why one Christian church won’t do as well 
as another. They have a famous preacher at 
‘Trinity,’ and the most magnificent music I 
have ever heard out of Italy; then, we know 
most of the people who go there. I don’t really 
think, Anne, that you will hear or see anything 
to harm you; still, I won’t insist upon it; you 
must do just exactly as you please.” 

“No, I suppose not,” she answered, slowly; 
“but, Arthur, you know I cannot give up my 
religion?” 

“Don’t! I wouldn’t have you do such a thing 
for the world! I don’t ask it; your faith will 
keep, and I shall be ordered somewhere else in 
about six months, where things will be different. 
You know I am here on temporary duty only,” 
he said, smoothing her beautiful hair with ten- 
der, caressing hand. 


i66 


’beth’s promise. 


I’ll think over the matter,” she said, and the 
subject was changed. And the more she thought 
of it, the more she felt disposed to yield. ‘ ‘ My 
husband,” she argued, “always so kind and lib- 
eral — almost a Catholic himself — who has never 
opposed, but rather encouraged me in the prac- 
tice of my religion, would never have advised 
me as he has done if it were wrong;” and she 
ended by consenting to his wishes, thus relin- 
quishing for worldly motives and human love 
that which was worth the sacrifice of all that 
earth could give, even life itself. 

But Captain Morley was not ordered away so 
soon as he had expected to be; they were there 
two years, and during that time Anne had lulled 
to rest her scruples about attending her own 
church. It is true that she went but seldom to 
“Trinity,” and when she did, it was only to 
hear the superb music, as she would have gone 
to the opera, and listen to the flowing eloquence 
of the fashionable preacher. How could she 
feel devout, or even breathe a prayer, where all 
was shadow without the substance, where forms 
and words were without significance ? But far 
astray as she was, a day never passed that one or 
more “Hail Marys” were not whispered to her 
who is the ‘ ‘ Help of the weak, ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ Refuge 
of sinners. ’ ’ It seemed somehow to comfort her, 
and make her feel that she was not quite an out- 
cast from her Faith. She still called herself a 
Catholic, and her friends complimented her on 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


167 


being a liberal one; she did not conceal her rea- 
sons for not attending her own church, and they 
commended her courage in not mixing herself 
up with what they were pleased to call “a disa- 
greeable rabble;” she was courted and admired, 
and the low, inexorable whispers of conscience 
were silenced by specious reasoning. 

About this time her little daughter, the ’Beth 
of our story, was born. Anne had many tendei 
thoughts of her mother, and of her little boy in 
heaven, as she held her babe close to her bosom ; 
the best and holiest feelings of her nature were 
stirred while she gazed down on the innocent 
face slumbering upon it, and in the quiet of the 
darkened room, a “still, small voice” whis- 
pered: “Faithless one! deprive not that soul, 
committed to thy care, of the waters of life!” 
Again and again came the low, stern whisper, 
giving her no rest by its importunities. One 
evening, holding the little creature towards her 
husband, who had been watching it with infinite 
tenderness, mingled with a species of wonder at 
its helplessness, its infantile beauty, and the 
mystery of its life — so like the bud that enfolds 
the future flowet — she said: “Arthur, my baby 
must be baptized by a Catholic priest, ; ou 
know ? ’ ’ 

“Of course, darling; I have been waiting for 
you to speak, and thought perhaps it was too 
soon,” he replied, as he kissed her forehead, and 
smoothed with lightest touches the silky head of 


i68 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


his little daughter, not daring to take her in his 
arms, she was so dainty and small, lest he should 
let her fall, or break her, like a fine piece of por- 
celain. ‘‘The midget is three weeks old — is she 
not? She can be bundled up, you know, and the 
nurse can take her to the Cathedral in a car- 
riage. ’ ’ 

“And you, Arthur?” 

“Oh, I shall go along, of course. I am glad 
of this bright summer weather,” he said, in his 
pleasant, cheerful way. “But would you not 
rather wait until you are strong enough to go 
too ?” 

“No,” she answered, in a low tone; “some- 
thing might happen. I wish it done at once.” 

“I’ll go to the Bishop, and have it all arranged 
the first thing to-morrow morning. You want 
the Bishop to baptize her?” he said. 

“Yes, I would like it very much; but, Arthur, 
what shall we do for a godmother ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know,” he said, musingly, remem- 
ing a former difficulty. “Ah, now I think of it: 
I saw your respectable nurse with a rosary in her 
fingers the other evening; maybe she’s a Cath- 
olic: if she is, she’ll do very well — for it’s not 
likely we shall ever see her again after we leave 
Boston — and the ceremony will be private, so 
what odds?” 

“Yes: that would do. I’ll ask her if she’s a 
Catholic, and if she’ll ‘stand,’ ” replied Anne. 

The nurse — Mrs. Kilmurray — was a Catholic, 


’beth’s promise. 


169 


a devout Irish Catholic, who had given hei in- 
fant charge many a sprinkle of holy water since 
its birth, and made the Sign of the Cross with 
its tiny hand upon its forehead and breast morn- 
ing and night, commending it to the tender care 
of the Immaculate Virgin Mother; and no woids 
can express the delight she felt on learning that 
the little creature was to receive Christian Bap- 
tism. She readily consented to ‘‘stand’’ for the 
child, who was baptized by the Bishop, at the 
Cathedral altar, he also being sponsor for the in- 
nocent soul just cleansed of its stain. Captain 
Morley told the Bishop that his wife was a Cath- 
olic, but not yet able to venture out, and he had 
asked no further questions, satisfied that she — 
the Catholic mother — would watch over and 
help the child to “carry its baptismal robe un- 
spotted to the judgment seat of Christ.” Oh, 
awful charge, which makes the very soul of such 
as receive it tremble! Anne Morley thought she 
had performed her duty, and all that was re- 
quired of her, in having the little one baptized a 
Catholic, and rested satisfied; “for by the time 
she will be old enough,” she reasoned, “we 
shall be living' somewhere else, and I shall be 
able to bring her up in her Faith.” She called 
her daughter ’Beth (Elizabeth), after Aunt ’Beth, 
and was happy; the desolate spot in her heart, 
left empty by the death of her first-born, was 
once more blossoming and filled with an earnest, 
living love. There was nothing to cloud hei 


170 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


temporal happiness; and to crown it with greatei 
joy, they had a short visit from Aunt ’Beth, 
whose chief delight lay in the fact that the babe 
had been born on free soil, and who, with her 
quaint sayings and loving ways, filled their 
pretty home with the sunshine of her true, af- 
fectionate heart, leaving behind her, when she 
went, pleasant memories, which prevented its 
growing dull. 

Following close upon these events came the 
War of the Rebellion (we all remember it) with 
its anguish and fury and bloody carnage, when 
it seemed that the final Dies Irce could hardly be 
worse, or more terrible when it should come. 
Captain Morley was ordered to a ship in South- 
ern waters, and from that time until the forces 
of the Government overwhelmed and crushed 
out ;che disloyal power, opposing it on land and 
sea, he was separated from his family, winning 
laurels, doing brave, constant, and important 
service, wounded once, and taking part in the 
most perilous movements that were made. Aunt 
’Beth besought Anne to come to “Ellerslie” 
with her child; but she thought she would be 
nearer to her husband in Washington, where she 
would be sure to hear at once all the official 
reports, and get news of him from the Depart- 
ment when letters failed her. She took a house, 
and soon had it looking like home — just as he 
used to love to see it — with the old familiar 
adornments of pictures and costly ornaments 


’beth’s promise. 


171 

they had collected abroad, and all those little 
elegancies which impart an air of refinement 
to a dwelling which no upholstering, how- 
ever rich, can give. Secluding herself from 
society, finding her only happiness in the 
companionship of her winsome little girl, now 
two years old, and living in a constant fever 
of waiting, through four long years that were 
fraught with dread, that often made her 
heart stand still — each day that dawned present- 
ing the possibility that before night tidings 
might come that Arthur was killed — time 
dragged on sadly and wearily. She found no 
solace in religion, for she had never resumed the 
practice of her Faith; and when she did go to 
church it was to a Protestant one, to pray for her 
husband’s safety; “for was it not most proper,” 
she asked herself, “that she should go to his 
own church to pray for him ? ’ ’ 

How proudly her heart swelled when news 
came of the victories in which he had taken 
part, when she saw his name mentioned for 
bravery, and heard him spoken of as one of the 
deliverers of his country! In the bright galaxy 
of names that v/ere being recorded in history as 
the heroic defenders of the Government, none 
stood with greater lustre than his. Then came 
a day of triumph and rejoicing; the war was at 
an end, her hero came home covered with laurels, 
and in the embrace of wife and child felt more 
than rewarded for all that he had endured. 


172 


'beth’s promise. 


Aunt ’Beth rushed down from ‘‘Ellerslie” to 
welcome him, and hugged, and kissed, and -cried 
over him, until they had to threaten her with sal 
volatile before she would compose herself, which 
made her so heartily ashamed that she adoied 
him in silence for the next few days. Fetes^ 
dinners, entertainments, civic and social, wel- 
comed the heroes of the war, and never was 
there a prouder woman than Anne Morley — 
prouder of him in his battle-worn, sun-faded, 
smoke-stained uniform, than in the resplendent 
one with a magnificent sword, that Aunt ’Beth, 
without asking any one’s consent, had given 
him. She wanted to have a gold medal struck 
off at Tiffany’s with the names and dates of the 
victories he had taken part in, the names of the 
rebel ships and forts he had captured; but he 
convinced her at last that such a medal as that 
could only be received from Congress, and as he 
was only one of many who deserved such honors, 
and some more than he did, he did not suppose 
that the Government, in the present crippled 
state of its finances, would be able to make so 
costly an outlay for mere decorations. Aunt 
’Beth thought it would be nobody’s business if 
she chose to present such a medal to her own 
nephew, to keep in his family as an heirloom, 
especially when he so richly deserved it; but he 
was firm, and finally talked her out of it, not 
that she was convinced of his being right — but 
because he had made her understand that to do 


’bkth’s promise. 


173 


such a tiling would not only make him fidicu* 
lous, but also displease him. Then she pre- 
sented him with his new uniform, epaulettes and 
sword, which he accepted gratefully, but de- 
clared they were much loo fine for him. 

Several happy years succeeded, marked by the 
usual changes incident to naval life; ’Beth, just 
growing out of her girlhood, was very lovely, a 
softened, feminine likeness of her father, and a 
character in which there were many traits more 
resembling his than her mother’s. She had 
lived in ignorance of her Faith; she had never 
heard that her mother was once a Catholic, or 
?;hat she herself was one by baptism. Captain 
Morley had observed from time to time that his 
wife seemed to have given up her old belief; but 
as she was all the same to him, and was appar- 
ently happy, he gave himself no concern about 
it. They had a family pew at St. Mark’s — the 
fashionable Episcopal Church — when they lived 
in Washington, and ’Beth was to all intents and 
purposes a Protestant. 

A large package, stamped with foreign post- 
marks, and directed to Captain Morley, arrived 
one day. He was at his office in the Navy Yard, 
and the curiosity of ’Beth and her mother was 
highly excited. The seal was large, and bore 
the most imposing heraldic devices; it was post- 
marked Rome. It contained a surprise to them 
all, which at first made them speechless, and 
then made them laugh. It was from Bonne 


174 


’beth’s promise. 


Mere — no longer Hamilton — but Madame le 
Princess Piccolomini il Sforza. She was married, 
and lived in a palace hundreds of years old, 
which, owing to the poverty of its patrician 
owner, had been rented out in ‘‘flats” and shops 
ever since he had come into possession, the only 
ancient splendors of his race left in it being 
some ragged tapestry, a picture by Cimabue, a 
Raphael, and one or two others equally valuable, 
which hung in his own apartments at the top of 
the house, and which he would not have sold 
had he starved. We can’t dwell on this episode, 
and will only say that Prince Piccolomini il 
Sforza’ s rich American spouse renovated and re- 
stored the splendors of that old palace, and bore 
her grandeur with becoming dignity. She had 
also become a Catholic, but how much expe- 
diency had to do with her conversion we cannot 
say. Last of all, she wrote that she had settled 
fifteen thousand dollars upon Anne Morley, 
being the most that she could ever do, and had 
instructed her lawyer in Boston to pay it to her 
order whenever she chose to draw it. It was an 
affectionate, loving letter, filled and bursting out 
all through with a delightful sense of her rank 
and dignities, and ending with the hope that 
they would soon revisit Europe and pay her a 
visit. She did not tell them, however, that her 
princely husband was nearly eighty years old, 
slightly paralyzed, and had to be lifted about by 
his servants, or that he had a temper like Vesu- 


’bkth’s promisk. 


175 


vius, which she did not mind in the least, being 
a*, ways able to escape it by going out to drive or 
visit, until once, being more violent than usual, 
she threatened to cut off his supplies of money 
and go back to the United States, which had the 
most soothing effect, and he gave the reins into 
her own hands ever after. And so we leave the 
illustrious pair. 

Another cruise of two years, and Captain Mor- 
ley was assigned to the command of the Naval 
Academy, where, he was assured by “the powers 
that be,” he should remain for four years, “a 
compliment due,” they said, “to his distin- 
guished services. ’ ’ How much the Morleys en- 
joyed their new home, with its exquisite sur- 
roundings, its congenial society, its order, its 
music, its pleasant gayeties, and its perfect water 
view, need not be described. They lived there, 
however, but two years: through intrigue and 
favoritism. Captain Morley was superseded by a 
personal friend of the appointing power, whose 
record was without distinction or extraordinary 
merit, and was placed in command of the “Port- 
land, ’ ’ a splendid new steamship, considered the 
finest in the Navy. He was too proud, and felt 
too deeply stung by the injustice done him, to 
ask a question or utter a remonstrance; he simply 
obeyed orders. His family went back to their 
home in Washington, and he sailed away, never 
to return to them again, dying, as we have re- 
lated, after saving his ship — whose timbers, had 


’beth’s promise. 


176 

they been ot gold, whose masts, had they been 
studded with precious stones, and even had she 
held an array of the greatest treasures upon earth, 
had not been worth the sacrifice of a life like his. 
It is at this period of Anne Morley’s life that our 
story opens, that she found herself without sup- 
port from that source whence alone it comes. 
With her idol shattered, and human love — the 
staff* upon which she had so long leaned — broken 
and fallen from her grasp, is it any wonder that 
her anguish was two-edged, like a sword; that 
conscience stung her by whispering, ‘‘Thy sin 
has found thee out;’’ that her pastor’s well- 
meant offices could not touch or help her grief? 


BETU’S PROMISE. 


177 


CHAPTER X. 

“SURSUM CORDA.” 

Aunt ’Beth, her heart heavy with her own 
grief, which she had so generously concealed, 
went home to “Ellerslie,” wisely judging that it 
would be better for Mrs. Morley to be thrown 
upon her own resources, and compelled, in a 
way, to occupy her mind with the necessary, 
everyday affairs of life. But it was with be- 
numbed faculties, and as one in a dream, that 
Anne began once more to look after the affairs 
of her household. Every object was so closely 
associated with her lost happiness, that she was 
frequently overcome, and thought she must give 
up all effort; but her lawyer came to her rescue, 
with business affairs important to her interests, 
which she was obliged to listen to, and go over 
with him, time after time; a task both tedious 
and perplexing, but which drew her out of her- 
self, and acted a,s a moral tonic, without her 
being in the least conscious of it. Gradually she 
found strength to choke back her grief, and re- 
sume the broken thread of her duties; she even 
had courage to see some of her husband’s old 
friends. Captain and Mrs. Brandt were dailv 
visitors; also the Rev. Mr. Haller and his ami- 
6 * 


178 


bkth’s promise. 


able wifi, and all were unremitting in their 
efforts to help her bear the burden of her great 
grief; but how futile their well-meant inten- 
tions proved, it is needless to say. Unconsciously, 
she let ’ Beth steal back to her heart, and hover 
around her with her childish, winsome ways; she 
accepted all her sweet, tender services with a v lin 
attempt to smile as she used to, which was even 
more painful to see than the "habitual sadness 
that had settled in deep lines upon her counten- 
ance. Nevertheless there was a look of love and 
fondness in her eyes as they rested upon her 
'face, or followed her here and there, which satis- 
fied the girl — who had not been slow to notice 
these signs of return to a more natural condition 
of mind — that she was more and more necessary 
to her. Nor was she mistaken. Mrs. Morley 
felt conscious of this growing dependence upon 
’Beth; she was restless and uneasy in her ab- 
sence, and realized a glow of relief in her presence 
when she returned. With ’Beth near her, mov- 
ing about her, or sitting at her knee, talking of 
all the pleasant things she could think of, she 
had a sense as of something yet left upon earth 
for her to love and cling to. Not that she could 
ever be solaced, she thought, in the bitter loss 
that she had sustained; not that any living be- 
ing could satisfy her desolate heart, nor any 
companionship, however dear, take the place of 
the one gone from her; but she loved her child 
none the less, and she would try to live for her 


’bkth’s promise. 


179 


sake. It was only at night — after ’Beth had 
done all that she could to comfort and cheer her; 
had watched her like a young mother-bird, while 
she tried to eat the tempting morsels which, with 
her nurse’s help, she had prepared for her, and 
sat chatting with her through the long evenings 
on topics she formerly liked, listening attentively, 
with face white and passionless, sometimes ask- 
ing a question, while her long, fair hands lay 
idly folded on her lap, or held close in ’Beth’s 
loving clasp — after the last ‘‘good night,” when 
sweet parting words had been whispered, and 
she was left alone, that she allowed her pent-up 
feelings to hold sway. Sometimes the dawn 
found her prostrate upon the floor, almost faint- 
ing with anguish; and many a night she lay 
upon her pillow staring into the dark, thinking, 
thinking, until her brain fairly reeled with the 
visions she conjured up, and nature was ready to 
break down for want of sleep. “Why should I 
want to be comforted,” she asked herself, “when 
I only ask to die?” 

“To die! — and then — what?” echoed her soul, 
in the hushed dar.kness. 

“Then — what, indeed!” she whispered. “Foi 
me, to die means despair! I have spurned 
Heaven! I have forfeited its help by my faith- 
lessness, and now that there is nothing human 
that can bring peace, what claim have I upon 
it! Oh, no: I have no right to the mercy of 
Him who has chastised me in His wrath, and 
who alone can heal!” 


i8o ’beth’s promise. 

What a stranger had she made herself to Him> 
that she should now doubt His compassion and 
His readiness to receive — aye, to seec her in the 
very wilderness into which she haa wandered, 
so far from His fold, to release her from the 
thorns which pierced and held her back, and 
lead her by His own right hand to safety and 
peace But, blinded by her grief, and overcome 
by her culpable neglect of her own best inter- 
ests, is it strange that she could not realize in 
the crucial trial that had suddenly come upon 
her, that He whom she most needed stood pa- 
tiently waiting, waiting at the door of her heart, 
waiting for her to open unto Him and invite 
Him to enter? In such a struggle as this, hu- 
man endurance must give way, unless the hand 
of infinite Mercy is stretched out to save, and 
bring light and comfort to the despairing soul. 

Friends had whispered to ’Beth that she must 
persuade her mother to go out into the sunshine 
and air. She accordingly hinted her wish in 
this matter several times, but her mother had 
taken no notice, except once, and then only to 
remark: “I do not wish to go out, my child; I 
am better here. ’ ’ 

“She’ll never go, unless I propose a visit to 
papa’s grave,” ’Beth said one day to Captain 
Brandt, who was again urging the question. 

“Go there then, my dear; there’s plenty of 
sunshine and air between here and the cemetery, 
and where is there more of it U) be found than 


’bkth’s promise. 


i8i 


just there? She’ll breathe it in, and bask in it 
without knowing it; a change of any kind will 
break up her gloomy habits. If I had my way, 
I’d take her across the plains on a mule!” ex- 
claimed Captain Brandt, biting off a piece of 
tobacco with a savage jerk. 

“Oh, Captain Brandt, don’t speak so of poor 
mamma!” said ’Beth, with quivering lips. 

“It would give her new life. I tell you, ’Beth, 
her blood has got soured with grief, and is dry- 
ing up in her veins, and nothing but fresh air 
will save her. Out on the plains, she’d have to 
live in it, and keep on moving; for ’twixt the 
Indians and buffaloes, there’s no time to halt or 
mope there. But I don’t suppose she’d ever con- 
sent to go. Anyhow, Beth, get her out of the 
house,” said the old sailor, as he went away. 
And the more ’Beth thought of it, the more 
necessary it seemed to her to follow his advice. 

“Mamma darling,” she said, one lovely, 
balmy morning in May, when the air was laden 
with the sweet odor of newly-blossomed trees, of 
'early flowers and fresh-springing grass, ‘ ‘ I have 
some beautiful flowers, and I want to go — you 
and I — and lay them upon papa’s grave. Oh, 
mamma, he loved flowers! and I think, some- 
how, he’d be glad to have us go.” Anne had 
ceased visiting the cemetery for some time, for 
the utter silence of that grave, which held all she 
most loved, seemed to chill and mock her grief, 
until she began to feel that he was not therc^ 


beth’s promise. 


182 

but nearer to her, in their old home, living in the 
fond memoiies that clung to each familiar ob- 
ject. 

“I’ll go with you, darling,” she answered, 
after a little while; “but you must help me; 
these new things are awkward to me.” And 
’Beth arrayed her in her widow’s bonnet, with its 
black veil dropping to her feet, laid the crape- 
bordered mantle about her shoulders, then got 
her basket of flowers, and led the way to the 
coupe^ which she had ordered to be in readiness, 
lest her mother — if there was any delay — should 
lose courage and not go. In the beautiful soli- 
tude of the “city of the dead,” with only the 
sweet sounds of nature to break the silence, a 
feeling of calm stole into the poor stricken heart, 
and, kneeling by the grave, she realized that it 
was indeed her loved one’s last resting-place; 
that he was sleeping there within reach of her 
hand, but she could not touch him; within sound 
of her voice, but he could neither hear nor re- 
spond to it, ‘ ‘ so near and yet so far apart were 
they. ’ ’ A wild impatience surged through her 
heart, and, bowing her face upon the grass, all 
starred with violets, that roofed his dark dwell- 
ing, she prayed to die. /Beth had strewn her 
beautiful flowers with tender, dainty care, and 
stolen away, thinking her mother would prefer 
being there alone, and that her emotions were 
too sacred for even her eyes to look upon. The 
sun was setting behind the grand old oaks that 


Teeth’s promise. 183 

shaded the cemetery, lighting up the picturesque 
heights beyond, and making the white car\ en 
angels upon the tombs seem tremulous with lifC; 
The golden beams flickered through the leaves, 
gently stirred by the soft south wind; the birds 
were trilling their last song, while the river ])e- 
low, sweeping over its rock-strewn bed, added 
its low murmuring music to the harmony of the 
scene. ’Beth was sitting on the steps of the ivy- 
covered chapel, watching the shifting splendors 
of the west, too absorbed to observe one of the 
guards, who, not seeing her, approached her 
mother, and touching his cap, told her the hour 
had come for closing the gates, and passed on. 
Mrs. Morley pressed her lips to the grave, and 
standing a moment, looked around for ’Beth, 
then called her, and leaning upon her strong 
young arm, started homeward. 

The visit to her husband’s grave, so far from 
having a soothing effect on Mrs. Morley, gave a 
new and unexpected phase to her grief; she in- 
wardly and ceaselessly reproached herself for 
staying away so long, called herself cruel and 
selfish, and now went every day, through fair 
and foul weather. Sometimes she went alone, 
and remained from morning until evening; it 
seemed to be a renewal of her sorrow in another 
and more hopeless form. Captain Brandt began 
to fear that her mental forces were becoming 
weakened by such morbid and persistent indul- 
gence, but assured ’Beth all through — without 


184 


’beth’s promise. 


referring to liis own uneasiness — that ‘‘being so 
much in the air would do her mother good, no 
matter where slie went;” and she would have 
been comforted, had not old Andrew told her 
once or twice — in a very cautious sort of a way, 
as if he were keeping something back which she 
ought to know, but dreaded to tell her — that he 
“didn’t think it was safe for Missis to go out by 
herself so often; not jest yet, anyhow, ’cause she 
was so bowed down.” And ’Beth, filled with a 
vague uneasiness, grew pale, and watched for 
her mother’s return whenever she went alone 
to the cemetery, wdth an anxiety so intense, that 
her relief on seeing her when she did get back 
would almost overcome her. She did not know 
what she dreaded; sometimes she felt that she 
was being put aside from her mother’s love again, 
although she was veiy tender and kind to her, 
only there was a far-away look in her counte- 
nance, and she was even more quiet than hereto- 
fore, scarcely ever volunteering a remark, and 
answering only when she was spoken to. Then 
the poor girl remembered having heard of per- 
sons who had died of grief; suppose some day 
she should be found lying dead on her father’s 
grave! Altogether, ’Beth was very miserable. 

One evening, on her way home from the cem- 
etery, where she had been since noon, Mrs. Mor- 
ley, feeling oppressed, directed the driver to stop 
the cotipe^ and, getting out, told him to drive 
home, as she intended to walk the rest of the 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


185 


way. It was a strange impulse, at that hour — 
twilight — but she felt that she must have air, and 
that perhaps walking would counteract the pecu- 
liar restlessness that had for several days dis- 
tressed her, a restlessness that tingled through 
her frame at times like an electric shock, and 
seemed to expand itself in her brain, until it 
throbbed with a violence almost unbearable. 
Clouds were indeed darkening around her; a 
crisis was approaching; the crystal vase of reason 
was already trembling; sooner or later, if no help 
came, it would fall in shattered ruin, a prey to 
an unsanctified sorrow. 

As she walked slowly on, she heard soft strains 
of music drifting through the shadows; the 
sweet, solemn tones floated nearer and nearer; 
the harmony grew more distinct and familiar; 
she stopped, and, looking around her to discover 
whence came the sounds, saw dimly, through 
the twilight, that she was near a Catholic 
church, the doors of which were open, and the 
interior lighted. It was an old church standing 
back from and above the street. Almost invol- 
untarily, she ascended the stone steps leading 
up to it, and went towards the door, meaning 
only to look in, and come away. Far back 
she saw the altar, radiant and rich with its 
lights and flowers; she saw clouds of incense 
floating upward from a censer in the hand of the 
officiating priest, whose gold-broidered vestments 
glittered with eveiy^ motion, the fragrant mist 


i86 


beth’s promise. 


spreading like a veil around the holy place; while 
faintly through it she saw the image of our Cru- 
cified Lord, His thorn-crowned Head inclined 
towards her. Between the sanctuary and the 
door knelt an adoring multitude; the mellow 
tones of the organ, and sweet, prayerful voices 
chanting the Tantii^n ergo^ over all. Suddenly 
as she gazed, she longed to enter and lay her 
burden before that Divine Presence whence help 
comes to the weary. If she could only get in 
unseen, to hide behind a pillar, and wait if haply 
some touch of divine pity might not reach her; 
if she could only kneel and touch the “hem of 
His garment!” “Am I awake?” she asked her- 
self, as these thoughts swept through her mind; 
“have I indeed been slumbering in the valley of 
the shadow of death?” There was no human 
motive now to draw her there, as in the flush 
and pride of other days; she was stripped of all 
life’s illusions, her idols were shattered, and she 
was thrown helpless and humble, and almost de- 
spairing, at the feet of Him to whom she had 
been so faithless, and whose anger she felt was 
kindled against her. Still the desire to enter the 
church possessed her. She crossed the vestibule, 
but having reached the inner door — like Mary 
of Egypt — something withheld her; perhaps her 
courage failed; and she knelt, for the solemn 
strains of the Tantum ergo had ceased, and she 
saw, through the curling mist of incense, the 
priest, elevating in his veiled hands the vSacred 


’beth’s promise. 


i8? 

Host, in its aureola of gold and gems. With 
head bent low, she knelt, until the adoring 
silence was broken by the joyous Laiidate Do- 
and rising, she quickly left the church, 
for the Laudato smote her heart as though mock- 
ing its desolation. 

When she reached home she found ’Beth wait- 
ing, . and uneasy beyond expression at her long 
absence. She threw herself on her mother’s 
breast, and burst into tears. Mrs. Morley kissed 
her tenderly, smoothing back the golden hair 
from her broad white forehead, while she gazed 
with a strange, newly-awakened pity, into the 
pale, sorrowful face pillowed upon her bosom. 

‘‘’Beth, darling, don’t cry; I am safe and well, 
you see,” she said, feeling for the first time how 
selfish her grief had made her towards this ten- 
der, loving heart, which had so willingly de- 
voted itself to her, offering the precious pearl of 
her young life to be dissolved in the bitter cup 
of her grief if so it might comfort her. 

“Oh, mamma! I was so afraid something 
would happen to you when the coupe came back 
without you. Don’ t go without me again ; don’ t, 
dearest!” she pleaded. 

“Not to stay so long, darling; sometimes we 
will go together. Won’t you give me a cup of 
hot tea? and I think I could eat something nice, 
if you’ll prepare it.” 

’Beth sprang up, saying that she would have 
eveiy^thing ready in five minutes. When had her 


i88 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


mother asked for anything to eat before ? The 
air was doing her good after all, and Captain 
Brandt was right! She watched her mother as 
she took her tea with an evident relish, and spent 
the evening, leaning upon her knee, chatting as 
she used to do, until bed-time. Had she seen 
her, later on, draw a medal from her bosom, and 
with a whispered prayer, press it to her lips,. and 
in pleading accents say: ‘‘ Oh, Refuge of Sinners, 
is there mercy for one like me?” ’Beth would 
have wondered, and would have feared that the 
fresh air had not, after all, done her mother so 
much good as she hoped. The long visits to the 
cemetery were discontinued, and whenever she. 
went now ’Beth accompanied her. Very often 
Mrs. Morley went out alone, never staying over 
an hour, and although ’ Beth would have liked to 
go with her, she did not urge it, being satisfied 
that she went only for air and exercise. “Where 
can she go?” thought ’Beth; “she does not go to 
the cemetery: it is too far;” but she checked all 
further conjectures about her mother’s move- 
ments, feeling that it was neither delicate nor 
proper even to wish to know that which, for 
some reason or other, she refrained from confid- 
ing to her. She imagined that these walks did 
her mother good; she certainly appeared stronger, 
and there had come into her grief-worn face a 
something — ’ Beth could not tell what — that gave 
her a more peaceful look. 

Mrs. Morley’s pastor often called to see her; 


’bkth’s promise. 


189 

she was always polite and friendly towards him, 
but he had to acknowledge that all his attempts 
to minister to her spiritual needs were fruitless. 
She liked him as a friend, and as a friend re- 
ceived him; and so long as his conversation was 
confined to an interchange of opinions, or to 
topics of general interest, her manner was un- 
changed; but whenever he — good, well-meaning 
man that he was — began to speak of the conso- 
lations of the religion which he thought she pro- 
fessed, and urged them upon her, she withdrew, 
as it were, into herself, became very quiet, and 
often leaned back with an expression of pain and 
weariness that both mystified and hurt him. He 
would then rise, and after a few friendly words of 
admonition, take leave, wondering if perhaps her 
mind were not disordered by the great shock it 
had sustained. Old Andrew’s time was taken 
up attending the door-bell, receiving the cards, 
and answering the inquiries of those who called 
to ask after Mrs. and Miss Morley, for it was 
understood that visitors were not admitted ; even 
the few who had at first been received had since 
been so often denied, as to cease expecting to see 
the invalid. Ne;vertheless, flowers the rarest and 
fairest, made up into beautiful forms, and many 
kindly messages with them, were left all the 
same, with the cards, touching her poor heart 
deeply; but the flowers all found their way to the 
one loved spot where her earthly hopes were 
buried, where she and ’Beth used to go together 
and arrange them. 


’beth’s promise. 


190 

One evening ’Betli was returning from a walk 
slie had taken with an old schoolmate, from 
whom she had parted at her own door, and find- 
ing it later than she supposed, quickened her 
steps almost to a run, fearing her mother had 
returned before her, and would miss her. Ap- 
proaching a church that stood many feet above 
the level of the street — a quaint, ancient edifice, 
which she had once or twice observed in pass- 
ing, because it was so unlike the newness of the 
city that had grown up around it — a bell sud- 
denly rang out above her head; she started, and 
involuntarily looked up and around her, when, 
to her surprise, she saw her mother come out of 
the church and descend the steps to the side- 
walk. Here was a revelation: her mother in a 
Roman Catholic church! What did it mean? 
She did not stop to think, for there was no 
thread of a clue to lead her out of the confused 
labyrinth of ideas into which the sight all at 
once plunged her. She only stood waiting until 
she got near enough; then saying, in her sweet, 
tender way, “Mother,” put her hand through 
her arm and told her how she was just hurrying 
home, afraid she would get there before her, 
when the bell sounding right over her head 
startled her, and made her stop and look around; 
“then I saw you, mamma, and I am so glad we 
met!” 

“Yes, darling, so am I, for I was just thinking 
of you. ’ ’ 


’bktii’s promise. 


I9I 

“Are there any old paintings in there, 
mamma?’’ asked ’Beth, pressing her mother’s 
arm close to her loving heart; “I suppose in 
Europe people are always going into the 
churches to look at the fine, famous pictures?” 

“Yes; the great churches of Europe are rarely 
empty of sight-seekers,” she answered, quietly, 
“It was one of my chief pleasures, when abroad, 
to spend much time in them. But where have 
you been, my child?” 

‘ ‘ Ella Moore called for me to take a walk, dear 
mamma; and we went to the Capitol, and 
watched the sun go down from the portico. Oh, 
it was so lovely! and I wished all the time for 
you, for the brightness, mamma, went so far 
back, that it looked as though we might see into 
the very heavens! Just look! the bronze-red 
clouds, all edged with gold, are still banked up 
there, and the pale green that we see between 
them, looks like a bright, calm sea.” 

“It is very beautiful, ’Beth; I am glad that 
you love nature,” said Mrs. Morley, sadly. 

“Do I love nature, mamma?” asked ’Beth 
with a little laugh. 

“How could' you take pleasure in it else?” 

“Then I shall go on loving everything on 
earth, in air and sky, that is beautiful!” ex- 
claimed ’Beth. “But it seems to me, there’s 
something with a deeper meaning in nature 
than the simple beauty that attracts and dazzles 
us; foi while I looked this evening at the splen- 


192 ’beth’s promise. 

dors that lit tip the clouds, and the hills, and 
the beautiful river, I thought of every one I ever 
loved, and somehow it seemed different from my 
thoughts of them at other times: it made me 
happier.” 

Mrs. Morley did not speak; her heart was too 
full of bitter thoughts of what might have been 
but for her faithlessness. Had she but paid less 
regard to human respect in those days long ago, 
when, through fear of the sneers and neglect ot 
fashionable friends, she shrank from contact 
with the poor and lowly, and but too willingly 
took the first false step that led her farther and 
farther away from her Faith; had she but shown 
a little courage and constancy, how could she 
tell what effect it might have had upon the 
mind of her husband, who was always so firm in 
acting out his principles, who ever respected 
one all the more for being consistent and true to 
his standard of right, and would have suffered 
death rather than have been derelict in duty? 
Oh, had she only been faithful, as he would 
have been in her place, he might have been won 
at last, by her prayers and example to become a 
Catholic! Then — then — ^how different all would 
have been when the blow fell! when, united in 
faith, she could have followed and aided him by 
her prayers; and, through the blest communion 
of saints, found peace and hope for her sorely- 
stricken heart! In that oneness of Faith, she 
could have thought of him indeed in tliat spiri- 


’bkth’s promise. 


193 


tiial way that ’Beth, looking heavenward, had 
thought of the friends she loved; looking with 
the eyes of her soul fai beyond the veil, she 
could have beheld him reposing in the ineffable 
peace, the unspeakable brightness of the Land 
of the Living, and have grown happy in the 
hope of a blest reunion with him, even while 
suffering the burden of her cross. But now, 
what consolation could she lay hold upon? 
Outcast from her Faith by her own act, in hav- 
ing yielded all to human love, and an undue 
regard for worldly opinion; stung by remorse, 
and almost despairing, she yet yearned for the 
Sacraments she had so long neglected; but who 
could help her, what hand would be outstretched 
in the darkness to lead her back to the heritage 
she had forfeited ? 

’Beth did not interrupt her mother’s silence; 
she was too well satisfied to know she was by 
her side, to feel the gentle pressure of her hand 
upon her arm, and be sure that the broken fibres 
of her sorrow-stricken heart were twining them- 
selves about hers with the old love. 

After this, ’Beth knew the secret — yet not all 
— of her mother’s lonely walks, and although 
wishing and hoping for some intimation, even 
the slightest, of a desire that she should accom- 
pany her (and even waited for it), it did not 
come, and she had too much delicacy and tender 
respect for her to obtrude on her devotions. “It 
is strange,” thought ’Beth, “that my darling 
7 


194 


^BETIl’S PROMISE. 


should go to the Roman Catholic Church instead 
of her own; but if she finds comfort there, I’m 
glad she goes.” ’Beth little knew that she her- 
seif was a ‘‘Roman Catholic” by baptism. 

“May I come for you, mamma?” she said one 
afternoon, as she saw her mother preparing to go 
out. “ It is a lovely evening, and I am going to 
take a walk. ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear, if you wish to; you will find me at 
the old church,” said Mrs, Morley. 

“Wish to! oh, you darling mamma, I’d wish 
never to be out of your sight, but to be fastened 
to your very apron strings, so that you couldn’t 
get away from me!” said ’Beth, her arm around 
her mother, her cheek pressed against her wan 
face. “I’ll be sure to meet you.” 

Mrs. Morley visited the old church every even- 
ing. Kneeling out of sight, hidden by one of the 
great pillars, it could scarcely be said that she 
prayed. It was the Octave of Corpus Christi, and 
Benediction was given every evening; but with 
bowed head she did not lift her eyes towards the 
solemn splendors of the altar, which in former 
times used to excite her emotions, and exalt her 
mind and imagination to a very devout frame, 
due, however, more to her poetic temperament 
and a love for the beautiful, than to a genuine, 
religious sentiment; nor can it be said that she 
prayed with her lips, or even framed the cry of 
her burdened soul into words; and yet what more 
eloquent appeal for divine mercy could there be, 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


195 


than the blended anguish and remorse that wmng 
her heart, the humility that kept her afar-oif, 
feeling that she was unworthy to “touch the hem 
of His garment, ’ ’ or look upon the glory of the 
countenance of Him in whose presence she waited ? 
This place was to her as a “ city of refuge, ’ ’ where 
she was learning by slow degrees the meaning of 
true repentance, and the uses of sorrow. Her re- 
ligion had in past times been the shallow senti- 
ment of an ill-regulated mind, which she had 
weakly abandoned when it was stripped of the 
splendors she loved, and she had found herself 
placed in contact with poverty and humility. 
All the grand privileges of her Faith had been 
hers — the graces, the merits, and the divine 
helps of the Sacraments, with their consolations 
and their crowning satisfactions; but in an evil 
hour she had cast all aside as worthless, leaving 
herself without shelter or support wherewith to 
brave the storms and tempests now making such 
wreck of the fair edifice of her earthly happi- 
ness. Thoughts like these were not wanting to 
her; her conscience, like an accusing angel, re- 
minded her of her faithlessness, of her loss, of 
the waste of years, and the prodigal casting 
away of graces, until there, kneeling away out 
of sight in the shadowy and solemn silence of 
the old church, she would involuntarily cry out: 
“Mary, conceived without sin, pray for me a 
sinner who has recourse to thee!” for she re- 
membered that Mary was human and had suf* 


’beth’s promise. 


196 

fered beyond all creatures, and that she would 
pity and intercede for her, when, through her 
own unworthiness, she dared not address Her 
Divine Son. 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


197 


CHAPTER XL 

‘‘Dear Lord! admit me to Thy sanctuary, 

The light shines through Thy door; 

And oh! the night has been so wild and drea/y, 

Say, shall I wander more ? — 

Look on the face of thy fair Mother, Mary, 

Ne’er shadowed by a sin, 

Whilst angels ope Thy longed-for sanctuary 
To take Thy suppliant in.” 

A PLAIN room with a low ceiling, half library 
half dining-room, with old-fashioned furniture, 
windows that open over a small flower-garden, 
and let in the south-west breeze laden with the 
sweet breath of the lilies and tea-roses that 
flourish so profusely below. A breakfast-table 
stands in the centre of the room, at which two 
Catholic clergymen sit at their morning meal. 
The elder of the two. Rev. Father Gibson — more 
familiarly known among his people as “Father 
Thomas” — is pastor of the old church near by; 
his pleasant, kindly face, is surmounted by a rim 
of short, curling white hair, upon which his 
bonnet-carre has been dropped onesidedly, giving 
emphasis to a pair of dark, twinkling eyes, at the 
corners of which the lines of mirth are plainly 
discernible; mirth which, never falling into 
levity, helps to keep his digestion good, and 
himself from despondency, when the woes, and 


198 


’bkth’s promise. 


sins, and distresses, in the confessional and out 
of it, are poured into his ears, with his church 
debts added as the “last feather that threatens 
to break the camel’s back.” He thinks some- 
times, when tried to the very verge of endur- 
ance, that he’d like to go and hide himself in a 
desert, and become a saint, until a Mass, or his 
rosary, or some good act that helps a fainting 
heart, disperses the cloud, and makes him sure 
that the idea of a desert is a temptation, and that 
his right place is here instead of there. 

The other ecclesiastic is a young man just 
home from the American College at Rome, where 
he studied and was ordained; he possesses a 
grave, intellectual countenance, upon which the 
responsibilities of his sacred calling weigh heav- 
ily. He had been out ever since his Mass, at 
five o’clock, taking the Blessed Sacrament to two 
sick penitents, who live on the confines of the 
city, and administering it as Viaticum to another 
who was dying. He is quite ready, after his long 
tramp, for a cup of coffee and a chop. The pain 
his sensitive nature has endured in seeing human 
sufferings which he has no power to alleviate, in 
witnessing the death-pangs of one passing away 
into the great hereafter, where he could only 
follow him with his prayers, makes refreshment 
not only welcome but necessary. There is a 
sad, heavy look on the young clergyman’s face, 
which even the air and sunshine, and the plain 
good fare before him, together with Father 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


199 


'Thomas’s cheerful words, do not sufBce to drive 
away. He is the Rev. John Allan, the pastor’s 
assistant, and, in all things pertaining to his 
vocation, is a man after his own heart, except 
that he is too much given to down-heartedness 
over ills for which there is no remedy. Father 
Tliomas does not approve of sadness: he thinks 
it enervating to soul as well as body, and sets 
himself to work whenever an opportunity offers, 
to show him how to bear his yoke more cheer- 
fully; not by reproofs, or theological counsels, 
or grave discourses, but by trying to infuse a 
little of the sunshine of his own nature into 
him, and by showing him that it is better to 
look up than down. 

Father Thomas observes how silent and de- 
jected his companion is, and begins to talk. 

“John,” said he familiarly, with a twinkle in 
his eye, “how did you find my old friend, Mrs. 
Grupp, this morning?” 

“She told me she had been very ill — in fact 
looked so — until she received the Blessed Sacra- 
ment, then she gave a great sigh of relief, and 
seemed to revive.” 

“And how then?” 

“I don’t know really; I had to come giway 
immediately to go to the other end of the city,” 
he replied, looking up with inquiry in his eyes. 

“It is well for you, then. She used to scold 
me up hill and down dale very often when I went 
to see her, and also the ladies who supported 


200 


’beth’s promise. 


her. She didn’t mean a bit of harm, it was a 
way she had of showing her gratitude; but I 
usually got the benefit of it all. Sometimes the 
tea a lady brought her wasn’t fit to drink; or 
‘ Miss Harriet had skimped her in sugar,’ or the 
‘young chit they sent to read to her, didn’t un- 
derstand the King’s English,’ or ‘ Father Thomas 
was always in such a hurry and puffed about 
the room at such a rate that he took her breath 
away. ’ Then when I tried to be very quiet and 
amiable with her, and took no notice of her 
sharp speeches, she declared I was laughing at 
her, and told me I needn’t come any more.” 

“I see she’s quite a character, but she’s very 
devout. Did you go again?” asked Father 
Allan, quite amused. 

“I’ll tell you presently, for I want to say some- 
thing about ‘Miss Harriet, ’* who is very near 
being — if not one already — a saint. She has 
won a title to all the beatitudes, by a constant 
and unobtrusive practice of every Christian vir- 
tue. In season and out of season, through cold 
and heat, rain and snow, slush and mud, she 
trots about among the poor and destitute, reliev- 
ing their wants, and never resting, although a 
luxurious home invites her to a life of ease. She 


* “ Miss Harriet ” and Mrs. Grupp are characters drawn 
from life, and what is here related of them really occurred. 
“ Miss Harriet” was patient with her poor client to the end, 
received her last breath and her dying blessing, and gave 
her a gp"ive in her own burial lot. 


’bkth’s promise. 


201 


went to her confessor one day and told him she 
was in trouble. Of course he expressed sym- 
pathy, and a readiness to help her if possible. 
Well, the trouble was that ‘Miss Harriet’s ’ poor 
were all so grateful, and received her gratuities 
of every description with so many blessings, and 
such warm, gushing thanks, that she began to 
feel uneasy lest her self-love was being too much 
pampered, and that instead of serving the poor 
for the love of God, she was doing it for 
her own gratification; and she begged him, 
if he knew of any very needy persons, who 
would never thank her for anything, but find 
fault, and rail at her, that he would please 
intrust them to her attention and care. Good 
Father D saw she was in earnest, and al- 

though he didn’t think ‘Miss Harriet’ needed 
any such discipline, he yielded to her entreaties, 
and sent her to Mrs. Grupp. She has at- 
tended her faithfully, and gets all, if not more 
than she bargained for. Still she never utters a 
complaint, but I’ve heard of some of her experi- 
ences with her client, and sometimes I have met 
her coming out as I was going in, and have no- 
ticed that her bonnet was bent and awry on her 
head, and her shawl hanging loose, while her 
face was flushed and careworn, by which signs I 
knew she had been in a sort of hurricane upstairs. 
And so it will go on to the end, for she’ll never 
give up anything she undertakes for the love of 
God. She’s one of that noble army of ‘old 


202 


’beth’s promise. 


maids’ that our holy religion exalts and dignh 
fies by the good they do, and the life of self- 
sacrifice they lead. But I can’t help having a 
quiet little laugh at ‘Miss Harriet’ when she 
comes in with crumpled bonnet and worried 
look, on some of her errands for her poor; for I 
know that she has been to see Mrs. Grupp, who 
does not exactly beat her, but puts her into a 
flurry that just brings her to the verge of impa- 
tience, and humiliation.” 

“Some one ought to take Mrs. Grupp in 
hand,” said the young priest. 

“God bless you. Father John, what’s the use! 
You never smashed a chestnut when you were a 
boy, because the burrs pricked your fingers — not 
you! you handled it very patiently and found a 
ripe delicious nut inside. That poor old creature 
is diseased, and never kfiows a moment’s rest; 
nerves and muscles rack her with pains and 
aches, which crop out in scolding and fault-find- 
ing; but under all that, she’s a patient, long-suf- 
fering soul, for she never murmurs agamst the 
will of God in afilicting her with disease and 
poverty. ’ ’ 

“The world is filled with strange contradic- 
tions,” remarked Father Allan; “and I see what 
a special grace it needs to deal with souls, lest in 
trying to weed out the cockle, we destroy the 
wheat.” 

“Just so,” said Father Thomas; “now I’ll tell 
yon about my last visit to Mrs. Grupp after she 


'beth’s promise. 


203 


had told me not to come any more. She sent foi 
me, and I was so grave — being determined if I 
^ould help myself, not to offend her— that she 
cried and went on like everything, said I was 
angry with her, and that it was cruel to be of- 
fended at a poor old woman, old enough to be 
my mother. I pacified her as well as I could, 
and promised to bring the Blessed Sacrament to 
her the next morning, which I did. Nature has 
given me a keen sense of the ridiculous; it is my 
besetting weakness ; and it occasionally happens 
that at the most unfitting time, something or 
other will obtrude itself on my attention in such 
an absurd way that, notwithstanding all my ef- 
forts to repress it, I am fairly choked with laugh- 
ter. I would give the world to strangle ' this 
natural depravity, and I can only hope our good 
Lord will be merciful lo me. Well; I went that 
morning to give Holy Communion to Mrs. 
Grupp, who — poor old soul? — was in a most se- 
rene state of mind, lying back on her pillows, 
with a clean, wide-ruffled cap on, her hands 
folded upon her breast, and everything spick and 
span clean around her. ‘ Miss Harriet’ had been 
there, and had arranged everything before I ar- 
rived, and there was promise that all would go 
well. A^ter laying the Sacred Host upon her 
tongue, I turned towards the table to gather up 
my book and stole, when she burst out with: 
^Ah-h-h! Thanks be to God! Now I feel as 
strong as a horse!’ It took me so by surprise 


204 


’bkth’s promise. 


that I could scarcely control myself, and was 
fairly convulsed with laughter when 1 left the 
room. It was after that I turned her over to 
your care. ’ ’ 

Father Allan laughed. “A laughing devil,” 
he said, “is pretty hard to subdue; he’s forever 
springing a mine under one at the most unex- 
pected times, and just when you think you’ve 
conquered him.” 

“That’s so; but there’s another devil worse 
yet, John; a lachrymose devil, that makes one 
look through smoked glass all the time,' until 
one thinks that the very sun has been shorn of 
his beams, ’ ’ said Father Thomas. ‘ ‘ Tet us guard 
against both. But now, to change the subject. 
Have you observed a lady in deep mourning who 
has been visiting the church every evening, since 
early in May? She seems to be deeply afflicted, 
and I am sure she is not a Catholic.” 

“Yes, I have indeed; and I have been tempted 
to speak to her several times when I found her 
kneeling all alone, for I thought, perhaps, she 
was waiting, hoping for help. I also think that 
she is not a Catholic, because I have not ob- 
served her at any of the early Masses. ’ ’ 

“I’ll tell you what happened yesterday. It 
was quite dusk when I left the confessional, and 
as I went towards the sanctuary, to go through 
to the sacristy, I saw this lady almost prostrate, 
her head bowed upon the step outside the rail- 
ing, so motionless that I thought she had fallen 


’beth’s promise. 


205 


asleep, or might be — God help her! — dead. I 
touched her shoulder lightly; she raised herself 
up, and turned towards me with such a woebe- 
gone look in her white face, that, accustomed as 
I am to all phases of human grief, it startled me. 
The light from the sanctuary lamp shone full 
upon her, or it is possible I should have passed 
without observing her. ‘ Pardon me for disturb- 
ing you, my child,’ I said; ‘it is late, and we are 
about closing the church door, or I should not 
have done so. ’ ” 

“ ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, drawing the long 
black veil she wore over her face; ‘I have no 
right to ask it, but may I come again?” 

“‘Certainly, my child; here in the sanctuary 
of God all may come; especially is it open to 
those who are burdened with sin and grief. ’ She 
bowed her head and left me. I really wish we 
could help her if she needs our help, or lead her 
back to the Good Shepherd of souls if she has 
gone astray.” 

“It seems to me. Father Thomas, that you 
might speak to her again, having spoken once, 
and as a priest and servant of God, ask her if 
you can help her, knowing what a great relief it 
is to the unfortunate to pour out their sorrows 
under the seal of confession. I don’t think it 
would be amiss to speak to her on that subject; 
you might ask her if she is a Catholic, or if she 
wishes to become one.” 

“I was thinking the same thing, John,” said 


2o6 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


Father Thomas, thoughtfully, ‘‘and I’ll do it 
that is, if she comes any more.” 

By this time breakfast was over, and message 
after message was brought in, first to Fathei 
Thomas, then to Father Allan, from persons 
waiting to see them; some on business, some for 
alms, some with tales of real distress requiring 
immediate relief; indeed, the day promised no 
end of variety and perplexity, in affairs which 
required the “wisdom of the serpent and the 
gentleness of the dove” to get through with. 
Now and then Father Thomas’s hearty laugh 
was heard, when after having had all his sympa- 
thies aroused by tears, and sobs, and broken 
words, which it seemed to him must preface 
some sad human tragedy, “the mountain at last 
brought forth a mouse,” proving to be nothing 
more than morbid imaginations, or hysterical 
chimeras, which the application of a little strong 
common sense, seasoned with good-natured sar- 
casm and plain, wholesome advice, succeeded in 
relieving. Then there were tough cases, who 
fought it out with one or the other of the pas- 
tors; ignorant, hard-headed men, whose ideas 
went round and round in a narrow circle, always 
coming back to where they started, who had 
come for advice, and ended by laying down the 
law themselves. Between whiles, devout per- 
sons who “just stepped in” for this or for that 
trifling excuse, and prolonged their call to a vis- 
itation, forgetful that the time they were en- 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


207 


croacliing upon belonged to higher and more 
weighty duties than their entertainment. Sick 
calls, and all the incidental interruptions that 
wait upon the daily life of a Catholic priest, leav- 
ing him no time until near midnight to read his 
Office, were not wanting here; the putting aside 
of self was the rule of life, and fulfilling the 
duties of their holy vocation their only reward. 
On this particular day, when twilight had 
brought a slight cessation of wearisome duties, 
Father Thomas went into the church to spend a 
half-hour before the Blessed Sacrament, know- 
ing that there he would be sure to find the help 
that his disturbed mind so much needed. He 
had quite forgotten the lady of whom he had 
spoken that morning at breakfast; but as he 
entered the sanctuary, he saw a dark figure 
kneeling on the side near the shrine of Mary Im- 
maculate, half concealed by a pillar, her head 
bowed upon her folded arms. Forgetting his 
own weariness of mind and body, his great, kind 
heart, full of human sympathy and a divine wish 
to lead the strange mourner to the source of all 
consolation. Father Thomas invoked the aid of 
her who is indeed the ‘‘Gate of Heaven,” the 
“Comfortress of the afflicted,” and approaching 
her sat down on one of the sanctuary chairs near 
by, and laid his hand for an instant upon her 
arm to attract her attention. 

“My child,” he said, as she lifted her head, 
showing the same white sorrowful face that had 


208 


bkth’s PROMISK. 


before so moved his pity; “pardon me: I seek 
only your own good in speaking to you. May I 
ask if you are a Catholic?” 

‘ ‘ I was once, ’ ’ she answered, in almost inaud- 
ible tones; “but I have forfeited all right to the 
name. ’ ’ What moved her to tell him — a stran- 
ger — this without reserve? Was this the oppor- 
tunity her poor soul had been waiting for? Was 
this the supreme moment in which, by her own 
will, all might be saved or lost, other and higher 
graces be given, or forever withdrawn? 

“Not so, my child, so long as repentance is 
left for us,” answered Father Thomas, quickly. 
“Do you repent?” 

“Yes, I repent, but too late, too late! Oh, 
leave me sir, leave me to my hopeless misery, for 
you can do me no good, ’ ’ she said, wringing her 
hands. 

“ ‘I came not to call the just, but sinners to 
repentance,’ ” said the good priest. “These are 
the words of Jesus Christ Himself. Despair of 
mercy no longer, my child; there in the tribunal 
of penance, come and be reconciled with Him, 
who only waits to forgive you, and heal your 
wounds. I know nothing of your life, but I tell 
you in the name of God, whose minister I am, 
that if you will enter there with a penitent 
heart, your sins, though they be as scarlet, shall 
be made whiter than snow. Come!” 

“Oh, I dare not! I dare not!” she said, irreso- 
lutely, yet half rising. 


’bkth’s promise. 209 

“Follow me, my poor child,’’ said Father 
Thomas, rising to go to his confessional. 

Obeying some interior impulse, and as if driven 
by desperation, she followed him, and, entering 
the confessional, she sank, almost fainting, at 
the little window through which penitents whis- 
per their sins to the priest on the other side. The 
first step taken, it only required a few encourag- 
ing words to unseal her lips, and she poured 
forth without reserve the sins and sorrows of 
her life into his patient ear. The conference was 
long, and with the help of her confessor, her 
conscience was “searched as with lamps,” and 
winnowed of its long arrears of sin, above which 
the dust of years of neglect had accumulated. 
Before she rose to go, she received absolution, 
and was on the morrow to receive Holy Com- 
munion. Not only that great boon, but the good 
priest told her that he would remember her 
husband in the Holy Sacrifice, and that she also, 
trusting in the infinite mercy of God, could pray 
for him, and offer future Communions for his 
repose: “for only our divine Lord knows what 
saving prayers went up from his heart in that 
raging storm ; we cannot tell that his last acts of 
contrition were not as perfect as those of a saint. 
Under those suppositions, and knowing that God 
judges not as man, but by the intentions of the 
heart whose every secret is laid bare to His All- 
seeing Eye, I will pray — yes — offer the Divine 
Sacrifice for his eternal rest.” 

7 * 


210 


’beth’s promise. 


’Beth had come, and waited outside for hei 
mother; but as she did not appear, she ventured 
into the church; the light being dim, she went 
up and down the aisles thinking to find her in 
one of the pews; not seeing her — she was then 
in iht confessional — she fancied she had gone 
home, and hurried away. 

Solaced and comforted, Mrs. Morley could 
scarcely realize that the softened, almost joyous 
heart she bore home with her was the same 
cold, heavy, despairing one that she had been 
bearing these many days. She walked on under 
the starlit heavens, scarcely conscious of the 
ground under her feet, the glad whisper of 
“ Saved! saved! saved! ’’ upon her lips. She had 
indeed found the Physician of souls, who poured 
divine balms into her wounds, healing them, and 
making her whole, as He had once healed the 
lepers by the wayside. Father Thomas had done 
wisely in not requiring a stern probation to test 
her sincerity; her heart he saw had been suffici- 
ently bruised, and the temporal punishment of 
her guilt bitter and severe enough ; “ a little more 
of it,” he thought, “and God only knows how it 
would have ended. ’ ’ And kneeling there, before 
the Divine Presence, his heart lifted up above all 
distractions, he gave thanks for the good work 
he had been led by the grace of God to do. He 
felt refreshed as with new wine, and went back 
to his house with a cheerful mind, ready and 
willing to shoulder his crosses and burdens as 
they came , 


’beth’s promise. 


211 


‘^Oh, darling!” cried ’Beth, who had heard 
the hall door open, and ran down hoping that it 
might be her mother coming in, ''''where have 
you been so long?” and before her mother 
could reply, folded her in her arms, and kissed 
her, as if it were enough just to have her back. 

‘‘ I will tell you, ’Beth,” answered Mrs. Mor- 
ley, returning her caress, ‘‘after dinner, and 
when we are quite alone.” And ’Beth saw in 
the pale, still beautiful face, and heard in the 
calm, sweet voice, a something which she could 
not define, for it was something that expressed 
peace, humility, and yet exaltation; but what- 
ever it might be, the change in the dear coun- 
tenance was so apparent that it made her happy 
without knowing why. She busied herself tak- 
ing off her mother’s bonnet and wraps, and 
smoothing her fair, waving hair — which now 
showed many a thread of white — with gentle 
touches, and rested her cheek caressingly upon 
it for a moment. 

At dinner, ’Beth talked and chatted about all 
the pleasant things she could think of, more 
than satisfied with the fond smile and loving 
look turned towards her, and, above all, with 
that indefinable change that had so transfigured 
her mother’s countenance. Her spirits rose al- 
most to merriment, and her sweet laugh, so long 
hushed, rippled out now and then, as it used to 
do, to old Andrew’s great satisfaction, as with a 
smile on his brown face, he moved round the 


212 


’beth’s promise. 


table. After dinner Mrs. Morley and ’Beth 
went up stairs to their cosy sitting-room, where, 
having drawn her mother’s chair out of the 
draught of the window, and lit the shaded 
Argand lamp, she closed the door and cuddled 
herself on a low cushion at her feet, resting her 
folded arms upon her knees, her face lifted up to 
hers full of expectation. 

“Now, mamma, tell me all about your adven- 
tures in that old church ? Where were you when 
I was looking for you?” she said. 

“I was in the confessional, my darling,” she 
answered gravely, holding ’Beth’s hand folded 
between her own. 

“ In the confessional! ” cried ’Beth with wide- 
open, wondering eyes, as she straightened her- 
self up; “dear mammal why did you go into 
that terrible place ? Oh, I should have been so 
afraid ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ 1 went to confess my sins, my long faithless- 
ness, my neglect of the highest and most sacred 
duties; for know, my child, that I was born a 
Catholic, and was one — until shortly before you 
were born — for many years.” 

“Oh, mamma! You! you! How could you 
be a Roman Catholic!” exclaimed ’Beth, almost 
overcome by this revelation. “And I, what 
am I?” 

“You are a Catholic by baptism! Oh, my 
child, forgive me!” cried Mrs. Morley, bowing 
her head on ’Beth’s shoulder, and folding hei 


’beth’s promise. 


213 


to her breast; ‘‘forgive me for having by my 
faithlessness made you a stranger to the one 
divine Faith, an outcast from your true herit- 
age. ’ ’ 

“Mamma! don’t grieve. I am nothing, you 
know, and I don’t think I could ever have been 
a Roman Catholic. But if it makes you happier 
to go back to that church, I would not for all the 
world you should not do so; for oh, dear mammal 
I have only one wish on earth, and that is to see 
you happy. ’ ’ 

“I believe you, my child; but won’t you try 
and help me to expiate my sin by coming with 
me? Won’t you console me by the assurance 
that you will make yourself acquainted with the 
Catholic Faith, and mayhap repair my great 
fault towards you, by becoming one?” 

“Yes, mamma,” said ’Beth, after a thought- 
ful pause, during which she weighed the decision 
she should make; “I can promise that, if you 
will teach me, and not want me to go to one of 
the priests in a confessional. It seems so mys- 
terious to be shut up in a box telling your sins 
to a mortal man!” ’Beth spoke as she believed, 
simply and truly; she was as ignorant of the 
Catholic religion and its practices as any native 
of pagan lands could be; she had only heard the 
people they knew and associated with saying 
strange things about it, and had read sentimental 
Protestant books, from which she had summed up 
an ideal that was as far from the truth as the East 


^14 


beth’s promise,. 


is from the West. Therefore it was not singulai 
that she felt both shocked and astonished when 
she learned from her mother’s own lips that she, 
in whose character she believed every perfection 
met, was a Roman Catholic. 

“The confessional, my child, is unlike what 
you think. It is the gate of heaven; and had I 
not found my way back to it, do you know what 
would have happened?” 

“I cannot think, mamma. What?” 

“I should have lost my reason — I should have 
gone mad. I was very near it, my child. What 
with the sorrow that has crushed and left me 
desolate on earth, without solace or any Divine 
support — having forfeited all by weakly abandon- 
ing my Faith — a cold despair was freezing me; 
every day I grew more hopeless, and only longed 
for death, until one evening — that evening I sent 
the carriage home without me — attracted by the 
sounds of an organ, and the old familiar strains 
of the Tantum ergo^ I discovered that I was in 
the neighborhood of a Catholic church. A strong 
impulse seized me to approach, and enter; but I 
got no farther than the door, when I knelt, and 
then, by the grace of God, the depths of my soul 
were stirred, and I felt that there might even yet 
be hope for me.” 

“Oh, mamma!” sobbed ’Beth, burying her 
tace on her mother’s bosom, “and you bore it 
all by } ourself! I would have tried to comfort 
you.” 


’beth’s promise. 


215 


“There was no earthly healing for remorse, 
for sorrow like mine. It is only in the Divine 
Sacraments of the Catholic Church that it is to 
be found: here, from the cradle to the grave, the 
faithful soul finds help and consolation — aye, and 
beyond the grave — help for our departed,^’ said 
Mrs. Morley, closing her eyes, while her lips 
moved with a whispered prayer for her husband’s 
repose. 

“It all sounds strange to me, mamma; of 
course I cannot understand it yet,” said ’Beth, 
gently, her words giving renewed pain to her 
through whose fault she had grown up in such 
ignorance; but she vowed in her inmost heart, 
that if penance and prayer would avail, her child 
should be brought back to the Fold from which, 
by her culpable negligence, she was so far astray. 

“To-morrow morning at early Mass — all un- 
worthy as I am — I am to receive Holy Com- 
munion. And this is all, my child, that I have 
to tell you now. I shall carry the grief of my 
great loss to the grave with me, but my cross is 
lightened by hope, for He who died upon the 
Cross, will help me to bear mine to the end,” 
said Mrs. Morley, in low, firm tones. 

“May I go to church with you, mamma — I 
mean to-morrow?” 

“Yes, dear child.” 

“But, mamma — but” — began ’Beth, after a 
silence of some minutes, and hesitating, as if not 
quite sure whether she was right or wrong in 


2i6 


’beth’s promise. 


saying what was in her heart; ‘‘I mean, mamma, 
what will they all say when they hear this?'’ 

“Who, my ’Beth?” 

“The pastor, and all the people we know.” 

“They’ll probably say that I have lost my 
mind, not knowing that I have just recovered it. 
But that is a small matter, my child. Human 
respect and I have shaken hands, I hope for- 
ever. ’ ’ 

It was exactly what every one did say when it 
was known that Mrs. Morley had become a 
Catholic. “Poor thing!” they said, after tell- 
ing the news to one another: “the shock of the 
Captain’s death quite unsettled her mind, and 
you know she was not a communicant in our 
Church; she only came now and then, when she 
had something new and elegant to parade!” 
Others, who knew that she had formerly been 
a Catholic, but had fallen off from the prac- 
tice of her religion for some reason or other, de- 
clared that in permitting it to be understood she 
was a Protestant all that time, she not only 
showed great weakness of character, but hypoc- 
risy! Then they pitied ’Beth, “a sweet, lovely 
girl,” they said; “so devoted to her mother that 
there was no hope but she would be perverted 
by her example — and just as she was going to be 
confirmed, too ! ’ ’ The pastor, hearing the rumor, 
thought, “if it were true, it explained a great 
many things which had been inexplicable to 
him,” and he hastened to pay Mrs. Morley a 


’bkth’s promise. 


217 


visit, to lean the facts of the case from her own 
lips. She received him with her usual courtesy, 
but when he questioned her, she declared her 
Faith in tones so firm and decided, yet tempered 
with humility, that he felt it would be in the 
last degree useless to discuss the question any 
further. In fact, although he was grieved, he 
behaved remarkably well, and expressed a hope 
that she would find all the spiritual comfort and 
succor she needed in the Faith she once found 
w^anting, but to which she had returned. 

‘‘Not my Faith that was wanting, but me,” 
she answered, quickly. He bowed, and said: 

‘‘But your daughter, Mrs. Morley? She has 
been brought up in our church, instructed in 
our belief, and is ready for confirmation. I hope 
most earnestly that you will lay no obstacles in 
her way, that you will not seek to drag her into 
the errors of Romanism!” 

“My daughter is a Catholic by baptism, and 
as through my most culpable negligence she has 
become a stranger to her holy Faith, I shall 
spare neither prayers, nor tears, nor influence, to 
repail my great fault towards her, until, by the 
grace of God, , she is restored to the Church. 
And now, my dear sir, that you have discharged 
what seemed to you a duty, in coming to speak 
wdth me, and as it would be useless to continue 
the interview, would it not be well to make an 
end? Permit me, however, to thank you mos^ 
gratefully — you and your good wife — for youi 


2i8 


’bkth’s promise. 


sympathy, and your well-meant efforts to com 
fort me, by all the helps your belief afforded, in 
my severe affliction. But you see now, that 
longing only for the divine aid of my own for- 
saken Faith, how impossible it was.” She held 
out her hand to the Reverend gentleman, who 
took it instantly in his own, bowed, and taking up 
his hat, withdrew. Not that he felt that he had 
nothing to say, by any means; he could have 
piled up arguments, and opinions, and perverted 
theological doctrines from saintly Fathers, and 
great Councils, enough to have overwhelmed any 
ordinary person; but in the face of such a firm, 
positive avowal of faith, he saw that it would be 
simply a waste of time to attempt it. ‘‘And, 
after all, ’ ’ he thought, ‘ ‘ she has — like the sow 
— only returned to the mire of the corruptions 
of the Romish Church; she has never in truth 
been one of us; ‘she is joined to her idols,’ and 
there’s nothing to do but to ‘leave her alone.’ ” 
Captain Brandt was furious with everybody, 
and swore roundly. “Hadn’t every ship a right 
to tack round to catch the wind? — why shouldn’t 
Mrs. Morley if she had a mind to ? Whose busi- 
ness was it ? Was she an American, or a Rus- 
sian? Had she freedom of conscience, or had 
she not ?” And he ended by telling his wife that 
“it he heard another word of it under his own 
roof, he’d go straight over to Catholicity him- 
self.” Then he marched off to pay Mrs. Morley 
and ’Beth a visit, just as if nothing had hap- 


’beth’s tromise. 


219 


peiied, determined they should not know from 
him that he had heard a word. But he told 
Mrs. Brandt when he went home that Mrs. Mor- 
ley was looking more like herself than he had 
seen her since poor Arthur died; not that the 
sorrow had gone out of her face, but there was 
something, he could not tell what, ‘ ‘ that seemed 
somehow to brighten it — ^you know, wife — like 
light on the edge of a cloud. I’ve seen it a 
thousand of times at sea, when I’ve been look- 
ing out for squalls. Well, that was in her face 
along with the cloud, and she was going over 
’Beth’s French lesson with her, and told me that 
’Beth’s teacher came now on regular days to 
give her music lessons. So if turning Catholic 
is any sign of derangement, she takes a mighty 
sensible way of showing it.” It was a nine 
days’ wonder — Mrs. Morley’s perversion, as they 
called it — then something else, more racy and 
satisfying to gossiping, scandal-loving human 
nature, arose on the social horizon, which cast it 
quite in the shade. People still called and left 
cards; the position of the Morleys could not be 
ignored by society; it was only a few sanctimo- 
nious members of Mr. Haller’s congregation, 
who were formerly most assiduous in their atten- 
tions, who now pursed up their lips, and with 
uprolled eyes, announced that they could have 
nothing more to do with them. But Mrs. Mor- 
ley, pursuing the even tenor of her way, her 
sorrow consecrated by penitence, gave no thought 


220 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


to wliat might or might not be the opinion of 
former friends and acquaintances — not from 
pride or arrogance on her part, but because she 
now had aims and hopes in contrast to which 
all else was as nothingness. 


bkth’s promise. 


221 


CHAPTER XII. 

WHAT ’BETH promised. 

’Beth did not go to Mass with her mother, as 
she had asked permission to do, on the morning 
that Mrs. Morley received Holy Communion. 
She shrank from it somehow, dreading she 
knew not what; and when her mother awakened 
her very early to get ready, she said: “I think 
I won’t go, mamma, unless you wish it very 
much.” 

“Very well, my ’Beth, I’ll take you in my 
heart this morning. By-and-by you’ll come 
with me, won’t you?” 

“Oh, yes indeed, mamma!” answered ’Beth, 
already repenting her determination, and half 
inclined even then to spring up and go; but Mrs. 
Morley was already down stairs, and hearing the 
hall door close, she knew it was too late. Then 
she buried her face in the pillow, and had a soft 
little cry to herself, fearing that her mother might 
take her action as not altogether kind, and feel 
that she was setting herself up against her being 
a Catholic. “No, no! she must never think 
that,” she murmured; “for I, of all creatures, 
would be the last to deprive her of the slightest 
comfort.” 


222 


beth’s promise. 


After breakfast, when Andrew had arranged 
the room, and taken himself to the kitch m to 
enjoy his own comfortable meal, ’Beth went, and 
leaning over her mother’s shoulder, whispered: 
“You are not displeased with me, I hope, dear 
mamma!” 

“No, no, my darling,” said Mrs. Morley, who 
had remained almost silent during breakfast; “I 
believe I have been very quiet, but what I have 
done this morning has made me so, for the Holy 
Communion, as Catholics receive it, is not a 
symbol, as in other churches.” 

“What is it then, dear mamma?” asked ’Beth, 
and drawing a chair to her mother’s side, with a 
look of inquiry in her eyes — so like her father’s 
— she waited the answer. 

“It is really and substantially the Body and 
Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord Jesus 
Christ Himself, which He gives us, becoming at 
once our food and guest; a Sacrament which 
cannot be lightly received, lest we receive Him 
unworthily and to our own condemnation. ’ ’ 

“How strange!” said ’Beth, “I do not under- 
stand it, mamma; it seems such a tremendous 
thing to believe! But let me go with you the 
next time ?’ ’ 

“Certainly, my child. To-day week — Friday 
— you shall accompany me,” answered Mrs. 
Morley. She did not urge ’Beth to further in- 
quiry by pursuing the subject, for in the deep 
humility of her spirit, she felt herself unworthy 


’beth’s promise. 


223 


of teaching those divine truths which she had so 
long cast aside as not of any worth. She could 
only pray in deep penitence of heart for her 
child, and offer her very life a willing sacrifice, 
if so Almighty God would accept it, for her re- 
turn to the one and only true Fold, from which, 
through no fault of her own, she had so blindly 
wandered. 

’Beth was up and dressed, and waiting for her 
mother, on the Friday morning that they 
were to go to Mass together. When she opened 
the door and found her ready, she smiled, 
and embracing her, they started at once. The 
silence and the beautiful tints of the morn- 
ing, the twittering of birds and the sweet 
fragrance of new blooming flowers in the park, 
and the calm quiet — for the city was not yet 
astir — tended to tranquillize the mind, and 
dispel its distractions, leaving it more dis- 
posed for devotion, and a participation in those 
divine mysteries which awaited the faithful, who 
at this hour were crowding the Catholic churches 
of the metropolis. ’Beth thought it was the 
loveliest morning that had ever dawned upon 
earth, and wondered if the roses over her father’s 
grave were not all abloom and sparkling with 
dew. The thought of him was also in her 
mother’s heart, though in a different light, 
which, at present, ’Beth could not realize, but 
by-and-by would not only come to understand, 
but also to share. Everything about the church 


224 


’beth’s promise. 


seemed strange to her. Soon after they were 
seated, the acolytes and priest approached the 
altar, and the Holy Sacrifice began. She under- 
stood nothing that was done; she watched every 
movement of the officiating priest, and his white- 
robed attendants; she wondered why he held up 
the golden chalice so that all could see it, and 
what meant the bowing and the genuflections, 
and changing of the great book from the right 
to the left side of the altar. It was all a mystery 
to her, but she was moved by a something — she 
could not tell what — and felt more deeply im- 
pressed than ever before in her life. This is the 
experience of hundreds of Protestants, even the 
most careless, who say frankly: feel nowhere 

else such a strange awe as I do in a Catholic 
church, even when there’s nothing going on. 
It always surprises me, and I wonder what it can 
be.” It is useless to tell them that it is the 
abiding and Real Presence of Jesus Christ, there 
throned upon the altar, flowing out and making 
holy the very air they breathe, that so impresses 
them; they only smile incredulously, having no 
faith in the divine Mystery, and believing only 
such portion of the words which He uttered 
when giving it to the world, as they think they 
understand; while they “trample under foot” 
those others, which are indeed the spirit and 
the life. 

When Mrs. Morley left the pew to approach 
the sanctuary railing, where all kneel to receive, 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


225 

notliing could equal ’Beth’s surprise when she 
saw the throng that also went — their silent, de- 
vout aspect, the gravity and the serenity of each 
face, and the singular order of their going; rich 
and poor, negro and white, high and low to- 
g( ther — there was no distinction there at the 
Table of the Lord, as she had seen elsewhere; 
and she thought that every one must indeed be- 
lieve what her mother had told her of this mys- 
terious Sacrament. It made a strong impression 
on the girl’s mind, and when her mother — hav- 
ing received — returned to her seat, she noted 
how almost transfigured her countenance ap- 
peared, in the humility and peace of its expres- 
sion ; tears filled her eyes, and she thanked God 
in her inmost soul that there was a faith in 
which her broken heart had found solace and 
peace. It did not matter to her in the least 
whether it was a true faith or not — it was enough 
for her to ktiow that her mother believed it to 
be true, and had found comfort in it. 

Something like resignation began to settle on 
Mrs. Morley’s sorely-tried heart after this, and 
if at times, her loss stirred nature into occasional 
periods of grief, sho was no longer comfortless, 
and knew where to fly for solace — where, as in 
a place of refuge, grace and strength ever 
abounds. 

’Beth had many questions asked her, of course, 
by friends when they met — questions as to her 
intentions, etc., which she answered with quiet 
8 


226 


’bkth’s promise. 


dignity, without giving any one very decided sat- 
isfaction. ‘‘No!” she said to one, “I am not a 
Roman Catholic. I may never be: but if I am 
ever convinced that I ought to be one, nothing 
will prevent me.” “Oh yes,” she answered 
another, “I go to church with mamma; I could 
not let her go alone.” “Sorr>^ mamma’s a Ro- 
man Catholic!” she replied to one who was try- 
ing as to what sympathy would do; “Oh no! I 
am glad beyond words, for her religion is a great 
comfort to her. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Morley’s strength gradually returned, and 
she found constant occupation; helping ’Beth 
with her French and music, guiding her taste in 
reading, and initiating her into the mysteries of 
domestic economy, filled up much of her time, 
leaving her yet some hours to visit several poor 
and destitute persons whom she assisted; to spend 
a half hour each day before the Blessed Sacra- 
ment, and to drive over to the cemetery two or 
three times a week to kneel at her husband’s 
grave, and pray for his repose. ’ Beth, now rip- 
ening into a beautiful womanhood, learned many 
lessons from her mother’s daily life, which helped 
to prepare her mind for the reception of the truth, 
lessons which were ‘ ‘ preparing the ways of the 
Lord and making His paths straight, ’ ’ through the 
erroneous ideas that still clouded it. Intelligent 
and of quick perception, she discerned the motif 
from which sprung so much good fruit; she read 
books explanatory of the Catholic Faith, as she 


’bkth’s promise. 


227 


had promised, and did not even shrink from 01 
avoid Father Thomas when he came to visit her 
mother. Indeed, they became such friends that, 
in her frank, direct way, she used to ask ques* 
tions, and state objections to this and that, con- 
cerning the belief of Catholics, with an amiable, 
pleasant audacity that amused him, and which, 
after chaffing her a little, he would explain with 
such sweet gravity and clearness, that she would 
end by declaring herself ‘‘convinced, but not 
believing. ’ ’ 

“ In short, my dear child, your mind is in the 
centre of a right-angled triangle, groping about 
for the longest side,’’ he said, laughing. 

‘ ‘ A what ? ’ ’ she asked, with wide open eyes. 

‘ ‘ A hypothenuse. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Good evening. Reverend Father, ’ ’ she answer- 
ed, laughing, and courtseying; “if it were any- 
body but you, I should think that was swearing. 
I’ll take a run in the air to get it blown off.” 

“Blessings follow you, child,” said Father 
Thomas, in his cheerful way, as ’Beth flitted out 
of the room. He was very fond of the bright, 
pure-minded young creature, whose fine quali- 
ties had won his respect, and for whose conver- 
sion he prayed daily. 

’Beth had been surprised at one thing which 
motives of delicacy prevented her talking over 
with her mother. She had gone to church sev- 
eral times towards evening to walk home with 
her when she had gone to confession. Some- 


228 


beth’s promise. 


times she waited in their own pew for her, know- 
ing where she was; sometimes outside in the air. 
Blit one sultry evening — it was now July — a 
storm was threatening, and she went in, enter- 
ing one of the lower pews near the bottom of the 
church, where a breath of air now and then 
drifted in through the open door, to watch for 
her mother. There her attention was attracted 
by quite a number of persons kneeling around a 
confessional, whose appearance betokened them 
as belonging to that class which Christ has de- 
clared His Church should always have with it — 
a class which, ever since the words were spoken, 
has been one of its distinctive marks, and is seen 
there as nowhere else upon earth. Their gar- 
ments were faded and worn ; some of them looked 
squalid and soiled: there were faces hardened in 
every line by care and privations; eyes restless 
and sad, countenances troubled yet patient. 
There were negroes among them — never hustled 
out of the way here in their Father’s house — 
some of them clean and tidy, others ragged, and 
stained with daily toil; and in their midst ’Beth 
saw her mother — her mother, once so fastidious 
that contact with such persons would have sick- 
ened and disgusted her. But there she knelt, 
next to the door of the confessional, unconscious 
— ’Beth thought — in the intentness of her devo- 
tion, of her surroundings, until she saw her rise 
and go towards a feeble, poverty-stricken woman, 
wlio was evidently suffering from disease, put 


’bktii’s promise. 


229 


her arm about her, and support her to her own 
place, which was next in the order of entering 
the tribunal of penance; then leaving her, she 
went and knelt below all the rest. It was so 
quietly done as to be scarcely noticed, and in a 
few moments she saw the feeble, tottering crea- 
ture go in to lay the burden that oppressed hei 
at the feet of one who, divinely commissioned, 
was vested with power to loose and remit the 
bonds of iniquity. Cannot we see in this little 
act how changed this woman was from the proud, 
sensuous, frivolous one of long ago, who aban- 
doned the practices of her religion through hu- 
man respect and self-love ? It impressed ’ Beth 
strangely; she thought that a religion which 
could overcome nature in such a way as that, 
came very near the spirit of the ‘ ‘ Sermon on 
the Mount,” and other things she had read of in 
the New Testament — read of as things that had 
happened in the far past, to be admired, but 
which could not possibly be imitated now. The 
storm that had been brewing when ’Beth came 
in, had spent in a heavy shower, then rolled 
southward with its deep thunders and vivid 
lightnings, cooling the air; and mother and 
daughter walked home through the pleasant 
dusk, arm in arm, saying little, but happy in 
each other’s presence, their hearts occupied with 
thoughts and questions concerning that “King- 
dom which is not of this world.” 

One morning Andrew brought Mrs. Morley a 


22P 


^bkth’s promise. 


letter while she and ’Beth were at breakfast. It 
was from Aunt ’ Beth, urging them to visit her. 
She was not well, she wrote, and wanted them 
both. 

“I got your letter telling me that you had 
gone back to the Catholic Church. I always 
thought, my dear Anne, that you’d take up youi 
old creed again; and as you were brought up in 
it, it was the right thing for you to do; and 
above all, I am particularly glad that it has been 
such a comfort to you in your time of trouble, 
for there are troubles on earth that only God can 
reach, and yours was one of them. I believe — 
unwillingly enough — that I am getting very old. 
My years ought to have convinced me of that 
long ago; but the symptoms are new to me, and 
never having lived with old people or become ac- 
quainted with their infirmities, or felt anything 
like this before, I don’t know what to make 
of it. At any rate, come and see if you can 
find out for me. Things are lovely at old 
“Ellerslie;” the hops are nearly ripe, the lake 
is a picture, and ’Beth will revel in it all — 
hops, roses, boating and everything — so don’t 
fail me. Oh! I forgot to tell you! there’s a nice 
little Roman Catholic chapel quite neai us, 
built on the grounds adjoining ‘Ellerslie,’ by 
a rich New Yorker, who bought the old Tracy 
House two years ago, and spends the summers 
here with his family. They are very nice peo- 
ple, I understand; but as I never go from home 


’i^eth’s promise. 


231 


these days, I do not know them. So, my deat 
Anne, you won’t have to jolt over ten miles of 
rough road, as you did once, to get to your church. 
Our new neighbor’s name is Dulaney. Don’t fail 
to come to your loving aunt, 

‘‘Elizabeth Morley.” 

’Beth was wild to go, but Mrs. Morley could 
not decide at once. They talked long over it, 
and read Aunt ’Beth’s letter again and again, and 
each time it seemed to have a more pathetic 
meaning. “ I am not well, and want you both.” 
and “I am getting very old, I fear;” were strange 
words to come from the energetic little woman, 
who never had headache, toothache, backache, or 
any other ache or pain in all her life, and who 
always looked on most of other people’s ailments 
as the results of indolence, selfishness, or what 
she called “megrims.” It was a thing to be 
thought over, their going; “For,” said Mrs. Mor- 
ley, “it is clear that she needs us; I never knew 
her to complain before; and if I can so arrange 
it, we must go. I’m afraid dear Aunt ’Beth is 
breaking up. ’ ’ 

“I hope not, mamma,” said ’Beth, her eyes full 
of tears. “I had a kind of fancy that Aunt ’Beth 
was immortal, she was always so full of life and 
eneigy. I’ll cheer her up, and you’ll do her good; 
and oh, mamma! won’t I revel among the hops, 
and on the lake!” 

“Yes: you will enjoy a change, my darling. I 
must see Mr. Harris about that business he told 


232 


’bkth’s promise. 


me of yesterday, then there are some other things 
to do — yes — I think I may have matters ar- 
ranged,” said Mrs. Morley. 

“Having faith that you will, my mamma. I’m 
going straight down town to buy the widest 
brimmed straw hat that I can find, for I intend 
to live out of doors if we go to ‘ Ellerslie. ’ Shall 
I stop and tell Father Thomas that we think of 
going?” 

“No need, my dear; I shall see him at church 
this evening.” 

“Yes,” thought ’Beth, as she left the room, 
“go there and kneel among those distressed and 
not over-clean people around the confessional. 
It is not their poverty — oh, no! I would do any- 
thing to help them, poor souls! but what good 
does it do mamma to be crowded in with them, 
and pushed out of her place, and be made to wait 
to the very last sometimes?’ ’ ’ Beth did not know 
that this was one of the ways taken by her 
mother to expiate her former sins of pride and 
over-fastidousness ; hence, whenever she thought 
of it, she quite raged in her heart, against what 
she considered a most unnecessary exposure of 
her health to contact with unknown ills. 

“Any one who did not know her as I do,” 
’Beth went on thinking, while she put on her 
th mgs to go in quest of the wide-brimmed hat — 
“would suppose that my mother was the greatest 
sinner living, from her going to confession so 
often. I do wonder what she can have to tell. 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


233 


she who never commits even a slight wrong. 
Heigh-ho! I wish, I wish I could believe all that 
she does!” 

It was decided that they were to go to ‘‘Ellers 
lie. ” Their preparations were all made, and they 
were to start on Thursday. Mrs. Morley received 
Holy Column nion on Wednesday morning; and 
in the afternoon she and ’Beth drove to the cem- 
etery, to spread fresh flowers over the grave so 
dear to their hearts. Andrew was mad^ happy 
by being left in charge of it during their absence, 
with an order for flowers whenever he called for 
them, to lay there. Mrs. Morley had arranged 
with Mr. Harris what was to be done in regard 
to a certain disputed title to some city lots, signed 
some papers, and then went to call on Father 
Thomas and leave a sum of money for some of 
her pensioners, whom he promised to see after 
himself; and, having attended to a few other 
matters, hastened home to rest an hour before 
packing. Everything was at last completed, 
Andrew had strapped the trunks, and had them 
taken down to the hall, after which he went to 
the railroad-office to buy two through tickets to 
New York. At bed-time Mrs. Morley and ’Beth 
sat together, as was their way, talking over mat- 
ters of interest, and of their journey — ’Beth de« 
scribing the hunt she had after the hat, which 
she had at last found in a little shop kept by a 
German at the very extremity of Seventh street, 
l\Irs. Morley listening with patient love. Bu* 


^34 


’bkth’s promise,. 


she was more quiet than usual to-night; there 
was an expression of deep sadness on her face, 
and an abstracted look in her eyes which ’Beth 
was not slow to note, and renew her efforts to 
dispel. 

“You are tired, darling,” she said at last, 
“and I should not have gone on chattering so 
long. Go to bed now, and I’ll be just as still as 
a little mouse.” 

‘ ‘ Presently — after I have said something, my 
’Beth, which I have been wishing to say for some 
time past,” said Mrs. Morley, smoothing the 
bright hair away from ’Beth’s forehead. 

“Yes, mamma,” she answered, somewhat 
startled, lifting her beautiful eyes to her mother’s 
with a frank, expectant look. 

“My darling! how much I wish that I could 
save you from the rough places of life, its pas- 
sion, its pain! But this being impossible, as trial 
is one of the conditions of existence — nor do I 
know that it would be well for it to be otherwise 
— I will do what I can, with your consent, to 
avert some of those bitter sorrows which have so 
desolated my own life. You have heard, my 
’ Beth, how and under what circumstances I lost 
my brave, noble father, an officer of the aimy; 
and how my mother, dying of a broken heart 
shortly after, left me, a little child, and my two 
brothers to the care of a stranger — our step- 
mother. You have heard how my brothers — so 
handsome and brave, and I so proud of them — 


’bkth’s promise. 


235 


one in tlie army, the other in the navy — perished 
each at his post of duty. ‘Glorious deaths!’ 
people said; but ah! what a mockery such glory 
is to the bereaved heart! But the last blow, the 
bitterest and most crushing of all, you know of, 
my child, but you can never, never measure its 
pain. And it is to avert the anguish of my lot 
from you, that I feel not only justified in asking 
you to make me a promise, but think it my duty 
as your mother to do so.” 

“Mamma, I will promise anything you may 
ask, because I know you love me too well, and 
are too good to want me to promise a thing that 
will not be best for me. What is it? ” said ’Beth, 
with loving trust beaming in her countenance. 

‘ ‘ Promise me, as if it were my dying request, 
never to marry into the Army or the Navy, or in 
any branch of the service the pursuit of which 
exposes one to peril and violent death. Had my 
loved and lost ones been civilians, they would 
have lived, and you and I had not been left 
orphaned and widowed. Glory! ah, I hate the 
word, when I think of all that it means to me! 
Can you promise what I wish, ’Beth?” 

“Certainly I can, mamma darling. “I’ll do 
more. I’ll promise never to marry at all; 
wouldn’t that be best? — then, you know, I could 
be like Aunt ’Beth; and we would never sepa- 
rate,” said the girl, with a bright smile. 

“No! no! not that. A woman is happier for 
marrying, unless she have a vocation for a higher 


236 


’bkth’s promise. 


and holier state of life; otherwise it is her des- 
tiny and her duty. A happy marriage seems to 
me, and is, no doubt, one of the most perfect 
conditions of human life. But promise me, ohi 
’Beth, promise me most solemnly that which I 
ask of you!” 

‘ ‘ I do, I do, mamma, and I call God to wit- 
ness my promise, which I would die rather than 
break,” said ’Beth, leaning her head upon her 
mother’s breast, who embraced her fondly, think- 
ing she had done the best thing she could for the 
safety of her future peace and happiness. 

‘‘The sweet Virgin Mother be your help, my 
’Beth. To her holy care I confided you when 
you were born; knowing how unworthy I was, 
I prayed her to be a mother to you. ’ ’ 

“I am glad to know that, mamma, for I have 
always had a strange sort of veneration for her. ’ ’ 
Then after a little more talk, they separated for 
the night. 

And this was ’Beth’s Promise. Could either 
of them have looked into the future, would it 
have been asked or given? 


^BETH’S PROMISE. 


237 


CHAPTER XIIL 

AN OLD GATE IS OPENED. 

Going back to “Ellerslie” was no small trial 
to Mrs. Morley. Its old familiar scenes, cluster- 
ing with memories of brighter and happier days, 
saddened her beyond expression. It was but nat- 
ural that this should be the case; but since she 
had learned to put self aside, there was no nlore 
excessive and morbid yielding to grief; she only 
clung nearer to the cross, offering the sorrowful 
memories of the past, with the sorrows and tears 
of Mary on Calvary, which strengthened and 
helped her to endure them. 

Aunt ’Beth did not look so ill as they had 
feared to see her; and she received them with 
open arms, smiles and tears blending with her 
welcome, as she clasped first one, and then the 
other, to her heart, releasing them only to scan 
their faces with a loving glance, and fold them 
in another and closer embrace. Even the old 
house itself seemed to have put on a festive and 
rejoicing expression to greet them to its hospit- 
able shelter. It all looked like fairy-land to 
’Beth, who had not been to ‘‘Ellerslie” since 
she was a child, and had no remembrance of its 
atti actions; but now as she stood a moment, and 


238 ’j^eth’s promise. 

cast lier eyes over the lovely surroundings, the 
thought arose in her mind that unhappiness 
could have no entrance among scenes that em- 
bodied so true an ideal of earthl)' paradise. 
Everything was such a delightful surprise to her 
that she did not think of the human lives that 
had passed their span of tears and smiles, of 
happy union and bitter separation, under the old 
grey roof, leaving it finally, with all its bright- 
ness and cheer, to join their ancestors in the 
family vault. Ah, happy it is for the young, 
that the ‘ ‘ shadows ’ ’ wait for a later day to enter 
into the pleasures of their life, sparing their 
dark omens from the morning feast, when the 
dew is upon its fiowers, and its wine-cup is filled 
to the brim with hopes that sparkle in its sun- 
shine, the bright draught telling no tale of the 
bitter lees it conceals! And so ’Beth Morley 
wondered if sorrow could ever find entrance into 
so fair an Eden as “Ellerslie.” “I think,” she 
whispered, ‘ ‘ I should like to stay here all my 
life.” 

After luncheon. Aunt ’Beth had to lie down. 
The little fiush of color in her cheeks, and the 
brightness of her eyes, which the excitement of 
their arrival had kindled, made them think she 
must be in a better condition of health than she 
really was; but now they saw her pale and lan- 
guid, and perceived that she was indeed failing, 

‘‘ My health is perfectly good,” she said, hav- 
ing quickly noted the look of concern on their 


’bkth’s promise. 


239 


faces; ‘‘I only get tired sooner than I used to*, 
but that is because I am getting to be a very old 
woman. It is my age, but it is not agreeable, I 
must say, to have your strength drifting away 
like this — should you think so, my dear?” she 
asked of ’Beth, who sat on the floor, close to the 
sofa on which she was reposing. 

“It will come back again. Aunt ’Beth,” re- 
plied ’Beth, with audacious trust in her own 
prophecy, “and as to being such an antedilu- 
vian as you make out, I don’t believe a word of 
it.” 

“Oh, I don’t give up in the least, you may 
believe, and don’t mean to, my dear. I can’t 
walk about as much as I have been accustomed 
to, but I’ve got a sure-footed little mule, as gen- 
tle as a lamb, and as silky as a kitten, and every 
morning I get on his back and ride all over the 
farm, then go to see after my poor friends out- 
side. I don’t give up, I assure you!” 

“That’s lovely, and if you’ll let me. I’ll walk 
alongside to-morrow. Aunt ’Beth.” 

“Yes: that would be pleasant. But I have 
also a light garden carriage that holds two. 
Sometimes I go in that, and you, my dear Anne, 
and ’Beth, shall take it by turns to go with me 
whenever you like. There’s a new basket phae- 
ton coming for you, ’Beth, my dear, and the 
gentlest of horses waiting for it, to drive around 
in when and where you will ; only Todo must go 
along at first to take care of you!” 


240 


bkth’s promise. 


‘‘Oh, mamma, did you ever hear of anything 
so delightful! A phaeton and horse! And I 
suppose Lodo is a great Newfoundland dog! 
exclaimed ’Beth, her face glowing with pleasure. 

Mrs. Morley, who was sitting near the window 
watching the flicker of sunshine and shadow 
upon the newly-mowed lawn, and inhaling the 
fragrance of carnations and violets which was 
wafted in on the summer breeze, turned and 
caught Aunt ’Beth’s eye, and they both laughed. 

“Oh, my mamma! how beautiful to see you 
laugh once more. I am glad I have been so 
childish, since it has made you laugh, and 
amused Aunt ’ Beth. ’ ’ 

Before either of them had time to speak, a 
neat, pretty girl, with dark skin and great black 
eyes, her cheeks glowing like a September 
peach, and her attire fitting her trim little figure 
to perfection, came into the room holding in her 
hand a garment that she had been at work 
on. Dropping a quaint little courtesy to the 
strangers, she crossed the floor to Aunt ’Beth’s 
:^ofa, saying, as she held up a long skirt: “Don’t 
you think, mem, it needs a tuck? She’s not 
tall, you know.” 

“Why yes, Dodo: two tucks would not be out 
of place. Wait a moment, child. Anne, this is 
the little girl — you remember; Dodo, this lady is 
my niece, Mrs. Morley; and this, her daughter 
and my namesake. I want you to help to make 
‘ FJlerslie” very pleasant for them.” 


•beth’s promise. 


241 


“Yes, mem, I will indeed; and I hope the 
ladies will like it ever so much,” said I.odo, 
showing her small even teeth in a delightful 
smile, as Mrs. Morley and ’Beth shook hands 
with her, and told her how glad they were to 
see her, and how sure they were that she would 
be very kind to them. She tripped out smil- 
ing, and resumed her work with many pleasant 
thoughts of the gentle ladies who had spoken so 
kindly to her, to lighten her task. 

“And that is Lodo! No wonder you laughed 
at me! It was the odd name that made me 
think of a Newfoundland dog; but why, I’m 
sure I can’t say, only that I thought that a nice 
large dog would be the very thing to make it all 
complete — the phaeton and horse I mean,” said 
’ Beth, laughing. ‘ ‘ I shall take Lodo to my 
heart! She’s the prettiest, quaintest little being 
I ever saw. ’ ’ 

“Yes, that is Lodo. Anne, did you never 
tell her about Lodo ? ” * 

“No: I believe not. She faded quite out of 
my mind after I left ‘ Ellerslie’ that time. How 
she has grown! ” 

‘ ‘ Who is she ? I know she has a history, she 
looks so like an elf,” asked ’Beth. 

‘ ‘ She may be one, for aught I know to the 
contrary,” said Aunt ’Beth. “I picked her up 

* Lodo, iu the Spanish Creole dialect of Porto Rico, means 
dirty. Had Aunt ’Beth known this, she would doubtless 
have changed it. 


242 


’beth’s promise. 


on the roadside one day, the raggedest, most for- 
lorn specimen of humanity I ever saw. She bit 
and scratched my coachman when he lifted her 
into the carriage, and screamed and struggled all 
the way home. It was as much as I could do to 
keep her from jumping out of the carriage win- 
dow. I had her washed and fed — she was as 
ravenous as a young kite; then I tried to find 
out to whom she belonged, but could learn noth- 
ing, except that a swarm of gypsies had gone 
along the road the day before, and I suppose 
they must have left her somewhere near where I 
found her. I asked her her name. She said 
‘ Lodo, mem, ’ and that’s all I know. I asked her 
if she had a mamma ? ‘No, mem : only womens. ’ 
So putting this and that together, I supposed 
that the gypsies had dropped her in the road to 
get rid of her, and that they were English 
gypsies, from the way she always said ‘mem,’ 
and I thought it very probable that her mother 
was an English country girl, who had run off 
and married into the tribe, and afterwards died, 
leaving her child to their tender mercies. But 
heaven only knows! Anne, you remember what 
a little outlaw she was, when you gave her her 
first lesson in civilization. ’ ’ 

“Yes,”’ said Mrs. Morley; “but undei it all, 
I saw a warm, honest little heart, and it helped 
me to be patient with her. ’ ’ 

“Well, as it has turned out, she has been the 
comfort of my life, but she’s like a wild creature 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


243 


about the air and sunshine, and is never so happy 
as when she’s in the woods. I very often send 
her on errands that ^ives her long tramps under 
the trees, where she sees her old friends, the 
birds and rabbits, and has a thousand funny 
things to tell about them when she returns. 
She’s an odd little person!” 

“I wonder if she has ever been baptized?” 
said Mrs. Morley. 

‘ ‘ That I can’ t tell, nor can she, I fancy. The 
possibilities are all against it, however. It is 
one of her freaks to attend service at the Dulaney 
church over yonder, where I suppose the music 
and glitter attract her gypsy heart. ’ ’ 

“What a romantic little story!” said ’Beth. 
“Lodo and I will be fast friends, I’m sure.” 

“And that reminds me,” said Aunt ’Beth, 
“of a very polite note I received yesterday from 
Mrs. Dulaney, offering a pew in their chapel for 
the use of my friends. Knowing that it was pri- 
,vate property, I had written to her, asking if 
strangers would be permitted to attend, and 
mentioned that I expected some Catholic rela- 
tives, who would be glad of an opportunity to 
attend services there. It is a very polite, well- 
written note.” 

“How kind and thoughtful to have taken so 
much trouble about us. Aunt ’Beth!” said Mrs. 
Morley, feeling deeply touched. 

“Trouble! nonsense, Anne! In the old times 
there used to be a great intimacy between the 


244 


bkth’s promise. 


Tracys and Morleys — so great that they agreed 
to have a gate cnt in the wall that divides the 
two estates, which made them very near neigh- 
bors indeed, the walk from one house to the 
other taking only five or six minutes. Before, it 
was a good half hour’s drive round to get there. 
The gate has not been opened for twenty years, 
but I’m going to make an effort — if the new 
people don’t object — to have it opened again, 
which will be very convenient for you and ’Beth^ 
as the chapel is only a few rods from it. ’ ’ 

‘‘How nice for you, dear mamma!” said ’Beth. 
“Now I’m going to get my big hat, and stroll 
around a little. I want to see the hops.” 

“And I will go to my room, so that Aunt 
’Beth can get a nap. We have fatigued her, I’m 
afraid, by making her talk so much, ’ ’ said Mrs. 
Morley, rising to go. 

“Sit still, Anne,” said Aunt ’Beth, with a 
little snap of her teeth. “Don’t talk nonsense! 
When I get to the pass of sleeping in broad day- 
light, or holding my tongue for fear of talking 
myself into a fever, I shall consider myself a bad 
case. I am not sick, and I only lie down now 
and then to rest myself. Sit still, my child, and 
let us talk on; I haven’t enjoyed anything so 
much for years: having you two to look at and 
talk to, makes me feel quite alive again!” 

“I’m glad you don’t mind talking, for, my 
dear Aunt ’Beth, I do like to let my tongue run 
on without hindrance, and, if you like it, I’U 


’beth’s promise. 245 

talk from morning until night,” said ’Beth, 
kneeling down by the sofa to kiss her. 

‘‘Yes, I do like it,” said Aunt ’Beth, slowly. 
“The old house here has been too silent. Some- 
times I began to fancy that it was haunted, and 
I longed for some one to speak to. Mrs. Trott 
and Lodo couldn’t give what I needed, although 
they did the best they could by faithful service 
and no end of chatter about domestic matters, 
that tired me half to death. Oh, I’m so glad to 
have you both here, my dears ! ’ ’ 

“And we are pleased also to be with you. 
Aunt ’Beth; it will do us all good, being to- 
gether,” said Mrs. Morley, smoothing the little 
thin hand that lay in hers. “I’ll stay here, 
darling, if you are going out,” she said to ’Beth. 

“I’m going to stay just where I am, dear 
mamma. The hops can wait,” she replied, with 
a bright smile. 

‘ ‘ Ah, yes, you were going to look at the hop 
vines, and you could not see a lovelier sight, my 
child. Next week we begin to pick them. The 
hop harvest is the great frolic of the year to the 
class who hire out, for miles around, but not to 
their employers. ’ ’ 

“Why so?” 

“We hire our help in this region by the year, 
with one arbitrary condition, which is, two 
weeks’ vacation for the hop-picking. Most peo- 
ple are left without help wnen that time comes, 
a.d the hands swarming away to the hop fields^ 


246 


’bath’s promise. 


more for the frolic than for what the)?’ earn^ 
although they are paid liberally, for it’s a mat- 
ter of some importance to the growers to get the 
hops into the drying houses just at the right 
time. Mrs. Trott and old black Tom are satis- 
fied to be lookers on, so I’m not left entirely to 
my own resources. I let Todo enjoy herself at 
our own hop-picking; she’s full of young life, 
and she makes the most of her frolic. I’m glad 
you’ll see it, my dears; it reminds me of what 
I’ve read of gathering in the vintage in France 
and Italy, and the ‘harvest-home’ in England 
and Germany. ’ ’ 

“Do they work all the time?” asked ’Beth, 
much interested. 

“From sunrise to sunset, but it is very light 
work. They are as merry as crickets, and as 
they pick in squads, they can gossip, and laugh 
and sing together to their hearts’ content. After 
supper, the flirting and dancing and the real fun 
begin. Sometimes they dance in a barn, some- 
times on the grass by moonlight. It is all very 
bright and cheerful, and they say there are a 
great many matches made on these occasions. 
“Children,” said Aunt ’Beth, “you have done 
me good already. Suppose now I had begun to 
die atop like an old tree, what a blank my last 
days would have been! As it is, I am thankful! 
Weak knees are a great inconvenience, but not 
half so bad as beginning to die atop.” 

“You haven’t begun to die anywhere, yet. 


’'beth’s promise. 


247 


head or feet,” said ’Beth, leaning her cheek 
against hers, “and we’ll dance together at the 
hop-picking! Now,” she added, as she lose up, 
“I smell so many spicy odors, that I’m going 
out to learn where they come from. I feel quite 
bewitched, and think perhaps it’s all true about 
the dryads, and naiads, and elves, and I shouldn’t 
be in the least astonished if I were to meet them 
roaming about “Ellerslie.” They heard her 
singing a merry little air as she went out on the 
lawn, where she soon found the carnations and 
violets, whose pleasant odors had lured her out. 

“So much like her father; have you noticed 
it, Anne?” said Aunt ’Beth. 

“Yes: not only in her eyes and countenance, 
but she has his best qualities of mind and heart, ’ ’ 
answered Mrs. Morley, gently. Then both were 
silent — both thinking fond, sad thoughts of him 
they should never see again on earth; one ming- 
ling the prayers in her inmost heart with the 
tears that welled up from it; the other, enduring 
like a stoic, the grief that had given her a blow 
from which she could not recover, and which was 
the true cause of what she called her “aging.” 

It was Sunday morning. The old gate in the 
wall between “Ellerslie” and “ Tracy-Holme ” 
had been opened, and now stood thrown back to 
admit Mrs. Morley and ’Beth, pioneered by Lodo, 
on their way to the chapel. It was a beautifully- 
finished stone edifice, standing in a grove of an- 
cient elms. Gothic in style, with all its appoint- 


248 


’bkth’s promise. 


ments perfect and in the best taste. The high 
lancet-shaped windows were of stained-glass from 
Venice; the altar of purest marble, panelled with 
verd~a7itiqiie; the tabernacle like carven lace 
work. An ivory crucifix stood aloft between the 
two rich windows in the rear, and under it, in 
full view, a painting of the sinless Mother of 
Dolors. The furnishing of the altar was of fine 
lace and massive silver. A niche on either side 
contained a statue of Mary Immaculate, and of 
St. Joseph, the wisest, the tenderest and holiest 
of men, as she was the purest and most blessed 
of women. The chapel was under the patronage 
of St. Joseph, and so named. It was evident 
that these devout and wealthy Catholics — the 
Dulaneys — had offered their richest and their 
best to the service of heaven; there was no 
grudging or holding back the price, apparent in 
anything; it was the prayer and thanksgiving of 
their life, built up in visible form — a monument 
of their faith, which consecrated and crowned 
their prosperity. A delicate looking young cler- 
gyman celebrated mass, and the music was sim- 
ply rendered by Mrs. Dulaney, who played upon 
a small organ, and two young ladies who were 
visiting her, whose voices were not only pure, 
but highly cultivated. The congregation was 
small, and consisted of workmen and workwomen 
from a paper manufactory recently established 
in the neighborhood, and the families of the men 
belonging to the iron works, to whom the open- 
ing of the chapel proved an unspeakable boon. 


’beth’s promise. 


249 


Mr. Dulaney, a tall, dignified, white-haired 
gentleman, had met the party from ‘‘Ellerslie” 
at the chapel door, introduced himself, and con- 
ducted them to a pew in the most courteous 
manner, without the least ostentation or parade 
of proprietorship. After Mass, and a brief in- 
struction on the Gospel of the day, Mrs. Morley 
and ’Beth remained, as was their custom, to of- 
fer certain private devotions, and a prayer of 
thanksgiving for the opportunity afforded them 
of being present at the Holy Sacrifice, and the 
small congregation had dispersed when they rose 
to go. They found the Dulaneys waiting for 
them under the trees. Mr. Dulaney introduced 
his wife and the Misses Marston — their two 
young visitors from New York — to Mrs. Morley 
and ’Beth, welcomed them to St. Joseph’s, and 
begged that they would come whenever they 
wished, as the chapel door remained open all day. 
Walking together to the gate, conversing as they 
went along, Mrs. Morley, having expressed her 
grateful thanks for the offered privilege, and also 
for the chapel having been made so easy of access 
to them by allowing the old gate to be opened, 
heard how it happened they were able to have 
the services of a priest all summer. ‘ ‘ There are 
so many priests in our city,” said Mr. Dulaney, 
‘‘in the seminaries, and in charge of parish 
churches, who are overworked, and not rich 
enough in this world’s goods to be able to get 
away for change and rest, that my wife and I 


250 


’bkth’s promise. 


thought it would be a good plan to find them 
out, and invite them in turn to ‘‘Tracy-Holme,” 
to be cared for, and to get back their strength in 
this pure atmosphere. The gain is all on our 
side, also the honor in having such guests; and 
the longer we can keep them, the better we are 
pleased. Sometimes two or three are here to- 
gether, and it is so pleasant to see the color com- 
ing back to their cheeks and strength to their 
limbs. They enjoy the country, the fare, the 
pure air, and the drives, like school-boys on a 
holiday, and my wife takes care of them as she 
would of her own sons if they were ailing. Thus 
it happens that we are enabled to have Holy 
Mass every day ; and what a boon that is for the 
little we do — a royal boon for that which costs 
us nothing!” 

’Beth and the Misses Marston had gone on to- 
gether, chatting and laughing; Todo had slipped 
away, and was waiting for ’Beth on the “Ellers- 
lie” side of the gate, behind the white lilacs; 
she wanted to show her something. 

The Dulaney family were quiet in manner, 
^ith a sincere kindness of heart expressed in all 
they said; there was nothing artificial, no preten- 
tion nor assumption of any sort, about them; 
which, added to their evident intelligence and 
natural refinement, gave them the stamp of the 
best standard of good breeding. Mrs. Morley, 
who had all her life been slow in forming friend- 
ships, was most agreeably impressed by her new 


bkth’s promise. 


251 


acquaintances, and felt a desire to know more cf 
them. Again expressing her gratitude, she in- 
vited them to “Ellerslie,” and told them that 
but for her aunt’s ill health she would have 
called when they first came to ‘ ‘ Tracy-Holme. ” 
Mrs. Morley really believed what she said; she 
did not know of Aunt ’Beth’s prejudice against 
‘‘new people,” whom she imagined were all 
ali ke — vulgar and ostentatious — ‘ ‘ but hoped, 
now that the gate was opened, they would not 
stand on ceremony,” which they promised not 
to do, and parted at the gate, quite as much 
pleased with Mrs. Morley and her daughter, as 
these were with them. They had thought it 
strange that the old lady of ‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ had not 
extended the civilities of the neighborhood to 
them, and wished that she had been more 
friendly, as it would have been so much pleas- 
anter. But they were shrewd enough to have 
some idea of how it was, having learned that 
Miss Morley was of a very old family and a great 
aristocrat; now, however, hearing from this 
sweet-voiced, gentle lady that she had been an 
invalid so long, they determined to accept the 
friendly advances she made, and call upon her. 
In her notes to the Dulaneys about the chapel 
and the gate. Aunt ’Beth had refrained from 
saying a word which would have seemed like 
excusing herself for not having called upon them, 
as she was asking favors of them; but she deter- 
mined to go, now that the gate was ox)en, which 


^53 


’beth^s promise. 


would enable her to get there without that tired, 
fainting feeling that sometimes came over hex 
after the least fatigue. Besides, Aunt ’Beth felt 
a little ashamed of having held herself so alocf — 
but this feeling she kept secret 

Lodo, hiding behind the lilacs, came forward 
as soon as Mrs. Morley and ’Beth had got well 
beyond the gate into the “Ellerslie” grounds; 
her appearance was so sudden that both started. 
‘‘I wanted to show you something, mem,” she 
said, looking demurely from one to the other, 
but nodding to ’ Beth ; ‘ ‘ will you please to come ?’ ’ 

‘‘I’m sure it’s a gnome or an elf,” said ’Beth, 
laughing. 

“Yes, dear, go with Lodo; I’ll walk home 
slowly under the beautiful trees,” said Mrs. 
Morley, glad to be left alone just then; fot 
thoughts were crowding into her mind, as she 
glanced around at the old haunts she remem- 
bered so well, that saddened her and filled her 
eyes with tears. 

“There, mem; there it is!” said Lodo, after 
they had walked a short distance, as rounding 
an abrupt turn of a thickly-wooded part of the 
ground, a scene of sylvan beauty was revealed to 
’Beth’s gaze which more than justified the girl’s 
enthusiasm, and clasping her hands, she ex- 
claimed: “How lovely! it is like a dream. ” It 
was a wild, picturesque ravine, through which a 
stream dashed, leaping and dancing over the 
rocks, into whose foaming waters the sunshine 


’bkth’s promise. 


253 


fell in gleams tlirougli the great trees that met 
overhead, transforming all it touched into strange 
splendors. The very light, sifting through the 
rich canopy of green, looked as though it shone 
through emeralds; wild roses clambered over the 
great gray rocks that cropped out along the sides; 
the blue periwinkle trailed itself along the crev- 
ices, and over the moss; old gnarled roots, cov- 
ered with lichens and scarlet fungi, and crowned 
with tufts of feathery grasses; magnificent ferns 
and dainty asters, added a varied beauty to the 
place; and, as if nothing should be wanting to 
make it perfect, the calls of the cat-bird, the 
warbling of the blue-jay, and other feathered 
songsters, blended their sweet wild notes in uni- 
son with the mellow dash of the running stream. 

‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ had been, ever since Aunt ’Beth 
came into possession, the refuge and safe sanc- 
tuary for birds; the sound of a gun was never 
heard among its bosky shades; and while she 
would have let a thief who had robbed her go 
“scot free,” she would have visited the extreme 
penalty of the law on any bird-catcher, who, in 
spite of her notices to the contrary, had tres- 
passed on her ground to pursue his wanton sport. 
And the birds seemed to understand that here 
they were safe, and they built their nests and 
raised their young from year to year, giving 
their sweet presence, and sweeter songs, for the 
privilege of sanctuary. They made their sum- 
mer homes in every tree, but the ravine was 
their favorite resort. 


254 


*beth’s promise. 


‘‘Miss Morley lets me bring my sewing bene 
sometimes, mem, and I just sets and listens to the 
birds and the water, and the rustling leaves, ' till 
I ’most expect certain to see the ‘good people’ 
come out, dressed in green and gold, to have a 
dance,” said Lodo, as she and ’Beth scrambled 
down over the rocks to a moss-grown seat that 
nearly a hundred years before had been placed 
about half way down the ravine, just where the 
best and most perfect view was obtained, by some 
dead-and-goue Morley who had an eye for the 
picturesque. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Ivodo, this is beautiful !’ ’ exclaimed ’ Beth ; 
“I never saw anything like it in all my life. But 
who are your friends, the ‘good people?’ I should 
think dancing would be a funny occupation for 
such.” 

“Only the fairies, mem. Didn’t you know 
there were fairies?” asked Lodo, her great black 
eyes sparkling with untold mysteries. 

“You’re the first one I ever saw, Lodo,” said 
’Beth, with a merry laugh. “I have read about 
them; but some time you shall come here with me 
and I will read you some fairy tales out of a book 
that I have, if you like.” 

“Oh, mem, that would please me very much. 
Nobody cares about coming here but me; but if 
you will let me come with you now and then, I 
shall be so glad ! Do you see that bridge way down 
yonder, mem, — it is most covered with ivy, and 
arches from one side of the ravine to the other?’ ^ 


^beth’s promise. 25s 

*‘Yes: now I see it. It looks very pretty, too. 
I should like to go over it,” said ’Beth. 

‘‘Nobody ever goes over it, mem,” said Lodo, 
with a little shudder, “ that is, except when they 
have to.” 

“What’s the matter with it, and why do people 
have to go over it sometimes? Is it unsafe?” 

“No, mem: but when any of the family dies, 
that’s the way they have to take them to the vault 
over yonder. They’re all buried there, and that’s 
the way they all go, over that old bridge,” said 
the girl, as if the very thought had cast a shadow 
over her wild, sunshiny nature. 

“I like that,” thought ’Beth, as she folded her 
hands on her lap, and gazed at the ivy-covered 
arch; “it gives a mysterious interest to the place, 
this bridge between life and death; sometimes I 
shall come here, and dream of those who have 
been borne across it, and perhaps see white-robed 
phantoms gliding over.” 

“There’s another place, mem, where we can’t 
see it, a beautiful place on the rocks,” said Lodo, 
thinking that the bridge had made ’Beth sad, be- 
cause she was silent and thoughtful. 

“Oh no: I like this best. The old bridge is 
lovely, with the water foaming under it. I should 
not like to be where I could not see it; it is a 
beautiful picture, Lodo.” 

“I don’t like anything, mem, that reminds 
me of ghosts, and that always do,” answered 
the gi rl ; “ but please don’ t say anything to Miss 
Morley ; I think she wouldn’ t like me saying so. ’ ’ 


beth’s promise. 


256 

“That reminds me, Lodo, that we’ve been 
here long enough; they’ll wonder where we are, 
and maybe wait dinner for us. Aunt ’Beth told 
me that she always dined early on Sundays; 
come, let us hurry back; I’m so glad you brought 
me here,” said ’Beth, rising to go. 

“ I thought you’d like it, mem; Miss Morley’s 
been very good, trying to get school-learning 
into my head; but the trees and sunshine, and 
the water and birds, suit me best; I’m more at 
home with them than with books, ’ ’ said Todo, 
as she trudged along with ’Beth, feeling for the 
first time in her life the pleasure of companion- 
ship and sympathy with one so near her own age. 

When Mrs. Morley arrived at the house, she 
found Aunt ’Beth walking slowly up and down 
the soft velvety lawn, just where a great tree in- 
tercepted the sun’s rays, throwing them like 
broken diamonds on the grass. She was wait- 
ing to hear how it had fared with ’Beth and her 
mother among the “Philistines,” as she per- 
sisted in calling her neighbors in her own mind. 
She had taken it into her head, crammed as it 
was with class traditions, that the Dulaneys, 
having risen from very small and obscure begin- 
nings, must of necessity be ostentatious and 
vulgar, and she was not only surprised, but well 
pleased at Mrs. Morley’s account of them, and 
announced her determination of calling upon 
them the veiy" next day, which she did, and re- 
turned home more than satisfied with her visit. 


’bkth’s promise. 


257 


‘‘I declare, Anne, they seem to ‘the manor 
born. ’ Americans have a wonderful faculty for 
adapting themselves to circumstances. Here’s 
Lodo; now if she had been an American child, 
she would by this time, with all the advantages 
she’s had, have manners that would make one 
believe she had been born to the ‘purple and 
fine linen,’ and had always lived in it; but noth- 
ing on earth will ever make her more than she 
is — a little peasant, a good, true, faithful domes- 
tic; and, I must confess, I’d rather have her 
just as she is.” Then ’Beth came in, full of 
enthusiasm about the ravine, her eyes sparkling 
and her cheeks glowing with the new life she 
had been breathing in with the pure ozone so 
plentiful in the atmosphere at “Ellerslie;” while 
lyodo, her heart beating with strange delight at 
finding some one who loved the wild, beautiful 
things of nature, which only seemed part and 
parcel of her own life, tripped upstairs to her 
own nice little room to take off her Sunday 
fineries, her ribbons of red and orange, and her 
necklace of big amber beads, the only thing 
upon her worth saving when she was found. 

Aunt ’Beth, who never did things by halves, 
and intent on showing her good will to her 
neighbors, had invited them and their guests to 
an early tea on Tuesday, and they sent an ac- 
ceptance. Mrs. Morley shrank very much from 
e^^n so quiet a reunion as this, “but Aunt ’Beth 
was to be thought of now,” she considered; 

9 


258 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


“she needed change, and new, cheerful faces 
around her — something that would interest her 
beyond the limits of ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ ’ and she de- 
termined to put self aside, join the little party, 
and exert herself as far as she could to make 
their visit pleasant. It was a small matter, and 
she did not for a moment think of it as anything 
meritorious; but it was a sacrifice of self, in a 
spirit of submission to her cross, and indicated 
the change that her religion was working in her, 
making the burden of her great sorrow more 
easy to bear. 

The evening passed delightfully. After tea, 
Mr. and Mrs. Dulaney, Mrs. Morley and the 
young priest. Father Hagner, sat round Aunt 
’Beth on the veranda, in quiet, pleasant con- 
verse. ‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ and its beauties, the pictur- 
esqueness of the old gray house, its magnificent 
trees of a century’s growth, and the velvet 
smoothness of the lawn, over which the setting 
sun was now casting long, soft shadows; the 
time-worn statues gleaming here and there 
through the shrubbery, as if patiently waiting 
in their stony silence for a Promethean touch to 
awaken them to life, were all admired in a way 
that made, Aunt ’Beth sit more erect in her 
chair, her chin just a little elevated, and with a 
bright sparkle in her eyes — for if she had a weak 
spot, it was the pride she took in her lovely old 
home, and nothing pleased her better than to 
hear it admired in an appreciative way by per- 


‘beth’s promise. 


259 


sons of taste, which she soon discovered her vis- 
itors to be. The Dulaneys had lived abroad two 
or three years, seeing all that was worth seeing, 
which, with their own natural good taste, had 
educated them to the height of admiring a place 
like ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ” which, had they been people 
of vulgar minds, they would have pronounced 
dingy and old fashioned. This is what Aunt 
’Beth thought, as she sat listening to and join- 
ing in the pleasant flow of general conversation. 
“ But then,” she asked herself mentally, ‘‘where 
did they get their gentle, quiet manners, their 
refinement, their self-possession? Money can’t 
buy such things; perhaps it is something in 
their religion. Roman Catholics are strange 
people, and I can believe their religion capable 
of working any transformation of character, 
when I see what it has done for Anne Morley. ’ ’ 
She was much interested in Father Hagner, 
and questioned him closely about his health, 
suggesting remedies, such as a year abroad, a 
summer in Colorado or Santa Barbara — both 
beyond his reach — and ended by inviting him 
to come over in the morning to look at some 
fine old paintings of Madonnas and other subjects 
which were reputed to be by some of the old 
masters, and had been purchased abroad ages 
ago. 

Mrs. Dulaney was telling Mrs. Morley of her 
two boys, Bertie and Paul, whom she was ex- 
pecting to spend their vacation with her. They 


26 o 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


were lier only children, and it was easy to see 
that she was proud of them; and Mrs. Moiley, 
thinking they were school-boys, hoped in her 
heart that the promise of their youth would be 
fulfilled in their manhood, to reward this good 
mother’s patient care and tender love. The 
young people who had been wandering through 
the grounds, returned full of youthful spirits to 
the house, their hair dressed with roses, and their 
hands full of violets. ’Beth had made the time 
pass very pleasantly for them, enjoying the stroll 
quite as much as they had, and now they prom- 
ised to sing for her. The wax candles were lit 
in the music-room, and in a short time their de- 
lightful voices were heard blending together, in 
sweet, harmonious accord, or rising in clear flute- 
like solo, on the wings of song. Mrs. Morley felt 
unbidden tears stealing over her cheeks as the 
strains floated out through the open windows; for 
they sang the songs of long ago, whose notes were 
interwoven with the happiest memories of her 
life. A low-breathed invocation to her whose 
human heart had known sorrow and been 
pierced with the sword of grief, soothed her mo- 
mentary anguish, and no one knew how the 
beautiful and entrancing sounds had smitten 
and hurt her. 

Aunt ’Beth invited her guests, when they were 
taking leave, to come again. ‘ Tracy-Holme ’ 
and ‘ Ellerslie ’ used to be on the friendliest of 
terms with eacli other, and now that the gate is 


•beth’s promise. 


261 


open we must have it so again,” she said, hold- 
ing Mrs. Dulaney’s hand. “I am getting to be a 
very old woman, I believe, and it will not be kind 
to stand upon ceremony with me. If you’ll be 
so good as to come informally, I shall be very 
glad. ’ ’ And they promised her they would do so. 
She told them that the hop-harvest was near at 
hand, and invited them to come over to an after- 
noon tea, that they might all go and enjoy the 
sight together. Then they parted, mutually 
pleased with each other. 

‘ ‘ Depend upon it, Anne, ’ ’ said Aunt ’ Beth, after 
they had all gone, ‘‘those two pretty girls — 
cousins, aren’t they? — are to marry the two sons, 
Bertie and Paul, whom they are expecting.” 

‘ ‘Are* they grown ?’ ’ 

“Oh yes: the oldest is twenty-five, Mr. Dulaney 
told me, and the second one twenty-three,” said 
Aunt ’Beth. “Indeed, I think it more than 
probable. ’ ’ 

“It may be so. Both girls are extremely 
pretty and well mannered, and I fancy Mrs. Du- 
laney would be pleased, ’ ’ said Mrs. Morley. 

“One of them, I am sure of,” said ’Beth, 
“the tall, blue-eyed one they call Elaine; for 
when Violet — the other cousin — began to talk 
about the young Dulaneys, she blushed like a 
‘red, red rose,’ and didn’t say a word.” 

“ Is that a sign, my ’Beth ?” asked her mothei, 
winding her arm around her waist. 

“Yes, mem,” said ’Beth, putting up her rosy 


262 


’bkth’s promise. 


mouth to be kissed, and speaking so exactly like 
lyodo, that Aunt ’Beth, who had just lit her bed- 
room candle, turned quickly, thinking it was her 
little maid, and glad that it was not — for what 
was a bit of fun in ’Beth, would have been pert- 
ness in Lodo. They had a little laugh over it, 
however, and Aunt ’Beth said: “This has been 
very pleasant indeed, my dears. I have taken 
quite a fancy to our new friends, and especially 
to that young priest” 

“He is quite interesting, but not to be com- 
pared with our old one at home. Oh, I wish you 
could see Father Thomas, Aunt ’Beth!” 

“What! are you a Catholic, ’Beth?” asked the 
little woman, gravely. 

“Not yet. Aunt ’Beth, but I hope to be, when 
I can be one honestly, ’ ’ said the girl, with sudden 
gravity and gentleness. 

“What do you mean by that, child?” 

“lean hardly tell you. I don’t understand 
everything that it is necessary for me to believe 
before I can become a Catholic, and I am wait- 
mg for faith — for faith which will make me sat- 
isfied in believing without understanding. That 
is the way it is, dear mamma, and Aunt ’Beth, 
and it is the first time I have ever said it. ’ ’ 

“The grace of faith always comes to the earn- 
est soul, ’ ’ said her mother, pressing her closer 
to her heart. 

“But you say ‘honestly,’ my love,” said Aunt 
’ Beth. 


’beth’s promise. 


263 


“Yes: I must believe <2//, not doubting one jot 
or tittle of what the Catholic Church teaches. 
Until I can do that, I shall remain as I am,” she 
answered, in gi*ave, low tones. 

Aunt ’Beth said no more; but kissed them 
both good -night, and went to her room thinking 
that ’Beth’s father must have been looking out 
of her eyes, so strongly did she resemble him as 
she stood there, giving utterance to her most 
sacred thoughts. 


264 


beth’s promise. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 

The days at ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ” although as fair and 
peaceful as dreamland, were never spent idly. 
Mrs. Morley went to Mass every morning at six 
o’clock, and ’Beth accompanied her, being drawn 
thither by a desire to understand more of the Di- 
vine Sacrifice of the altar, and with a secret in- 
definite hope that she might receive the gift of 
Faith, without which — all human reason failing 
— she must remain outside the one safe Fold. 
It was very pleasing to the girl to be there at 
that hour, when the solemn quiet of the sanc- 
tuary was broken only by the low voice of the 
priest, the rustle of his robes as he moved from 
one side of the altar to the other, and the rev- 
erent responses of Mr. Dulaney, who served — 
except on Sundays — with great recollection and 
devotion; the only music being the songs of 
birds that came in fitful strains through the open 
windows, and the whisperings of the wind in the 
great trees outside. She always followed the 
devotions for ]\Iass in her prayer-book, her mind 
solemnized by the awful significance of the sa- 
cred rite; and at the elevation, she bowed her 
head, while the cry of her heart went up: “Oh, 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


265 


that I could believe!” She did believe, without 
knowing it; but she imagined there must come 
some wonderful manifestation with the gift of 
faith — which would be as unmistakable as the 
sun at noonday, making all things plain; in 
short, she expected a miracle. 

They always found Aunt ’Beth in her great 
chair on the veranda, awaiting their return, and 
it made them happy to see her dear old face 
lighting up at their approach. Although she 
seemed to grow a little stronger every day since 
their arrival at ‘‘Ellerslie,” it was not the old 
life and strength that they remembered, full of 
masterful ways, to which every one willingly 
yielded, feeling that she was always right; that 
only showed itself at intervals now, always fol- 
lowed by a languor, which made it but too ap- 
parent that her vitality was seriously impaired. 
But no one must notice it; it did not please her 
that any one should show, either by sympathy or 
offers of assistance, that they thought she was 
failing. She was very busy just now; every 
morning after breakfast, having settled the 
affairs of the day with Mrs. Trott, she got into 
her low garden-carriage, drawn by the donkey, 
and made the circuit of the farm-lands, especi- 
all} the hop-fields, to see if the pavilions for the 
hop-pickers, the great receiving tubs, and the 
drying houses, were being put in proper order by 
the workmen. Sometimes when she told Mrs. 
Morle}^ that she wanted to go outside to visT the 


266 


’beth’s promise. 


sick, or one or two families whose needs she 
looked after, and invited her to accompany her, 
“not only,” as she said, “for her company, but 
for her help,” she consented readily, only too 
glad to be of use. Lodo had been in the habit of 
going with her, but in her old practical spirit, 
fearing that Mrs. Morley might get to brooding 
over her sorrows if left too much alone, she made 
use of the little ruse as to needing her help. 
Aunt ’Beth did not know yet how changed Mrs. 
Morley was, and that an opportunity to do good 
in some way, or to somebody, was a boon above 
price to her. In their absence, ’ Beth practised, 
studied and read. Sometimes the young ladies 
from “Tracy-Holme” came over, and spent an 
hour or two in social chat, or had a game of cro- 
quet under the trees, filling the air with the sweet 
echoes of their young voices and merry laughter. 
They frequently mentioned the young Dulaneys, 
Violet rattling on a great deal about both of 
them; Elaine speaking only of Bertie, who, ac- 
cording to her account, was the handsomest, best 
and bravest fellow on earth, and evidently her 
favorite. Violet declared it would be really 
grand when they came, there would be so much 
fun: horse-back rides, rowing on the lake, fish- 
ing-parties, picnics, croquet; “and of course we 
shall expect you. Miss Morley, to come with us 
everywhere! You know,” she added, reminded 
by ’Beth’s mourning of her great and recent loss, 
“there will be nothing like gayety — I mean par- 


’beth’s promise. 


267 


ties, and all that sort of thing; it will be only 
among ourselves, and we mean to have a nice, 
merry time of it in the woods, on the water, and 
everywhere. ’ ’ 

“You leave ‘Ellerslie’ out of your plans,” 
said ’Beth, laughingly. 

“Don’t delude yourself with such an idea. I 
mean to get round Miss Morley in such a way 
that she’ll give ‘Ellerslie’ up to my devices, and 
you too,” she ran on; “I mean to have a famous 
time, just as soon as ever our knights arrive; and 
remember. Miss Morley, we shall expect you to 
join us in all our expeditions.” 

“I am sure I shall enjoy them,” said ’Beth; 
“only can’t you stop calling me Miss Morley?” 

“I shall be delighted to, that is if you will let 
us be Elaine and Violet to you; I am the young- 
est, but I always do the talking, because you 
know Elaine’s in love.” 

“Oh, Violet!” exclaimed her cousin, her fair 
face suffused with blushes. 

“Is she?” asked ’Beth, not knowing what else 
to say. 

“It is a fact; you’ll see for yourself before 
long,” she answered, merrily. 

“And you?” queried ’Beth. 

“I am not, and don’t intend to be for five 
years to come; I mean to enjoy myself,” she an- 
swered gayly, singing a snatch from an Italian 
song about “sipping the bead from life’s wine 
while the sunshine is there.” 


268 


’bkth’s promise. 


It was a new revelation to ’Beth, this phase 
of young life, and it amused her greatly when 
she saw that Elaine Marston was not annoyed by 
her cousin’s allusion to her heart affairs. They 
would not stay to lunch, and throwing on her 
hat, she walked as far as the gate with them, 
where they parted with many promises to be 
very friendly and sociable. 

Sometimes ’Beth, by permission, took Lodo 
with her to spend a morning in the ravine, or 
‘‘glen,” as it was more commonly called, where 
she read to her something that she knew would 
please and delight her. Hans Andersen’s stories 
found an answering chord in her wild, untutored 
imagination, but the “Lady of the Lake” awoke 
all the dormant romance of her poetical gypsy 
nature. The girl was supremely happy, and her 
affection for ’Beth, who had opened such new 
vistas of happiness to her, was merging into a 
sort of idolatry. 

One morning at breakfast. Aunt ’Beth an- 
nounced that the basket-phaeton, which she had 
ordered from New York, had arrived by the 
early train, “and I want you, my child, to take 
Lodo, and drive down to the lake in it. Your 
mother has promised to take a little drive with 
me. ’ ’ 

“Oh dear Aunt ’Beth, what lovely news! How 
shall I ever thank you?” said ’Beth, her face all 
aglow with pleasure. 

“Don’t try to, my child, for the pleasure is 


^eetii’s promise. 


269 


mine as mucli as yours. I don’t like to be 
thanked. You’ll enjoy the drive; the road is good, 
and the bit of country you’ll pass through is 
beautiful. You need have no fears about your 
horse; he goes well, and is as gentle as a lamb; 
I brought him up myself, and named him Pega- 
sus, but he is known only as Peg,” said Aunt 
’Beth, her eyes twinkling with some of their old 
light. She was very proud of that horse, and 
always spoke of him with great pleasure. Then 
she sent ’Beth, with Lodo, round to the coach- 
house to examine the phaeton, and ordered Peg 
to be trotted out for inspection. He was a hand- 
some, gentle creature, with a soft, silky, chestnut 
coat, carried his head well, and stepped so 
daintily that his feet seemed to spurn the earth. 
There was spirit enough in his eyes, and from a 
peculiar way he had of throwing his pretty ears 
back, it was easy to see what he would have 
been but for the sobering effect produced by Aunt 
’Beth’s training. 

’Beth was overflowing with delight. Every- 
thing was couleur de rose; to have such a phae- 
ton and such a horse at command, and to drive 
about when and where she pleased, seemed to 
her about the most delightful thing that was 
ever dreamt of. Aunt ’Beth and Mrs. Morley 
were about starting off on one of their usual ex- 
cursions when ’Beth got back. She threw her 
arms around Aunt ’Beth, and called her the dear- 
est of fairy godmothers, kissed her, then lifting 


270 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


her up bodily, carried her out and seated her in 
her low garden-carriage that stood waiting at the 
step. 

“Oh, my child!” whispered Aunt ’Beth, with 
streaming eyes, when ’Beth had placed her ten- 
derly upon the cushions, “don’t do that again; 
it reminds me too much of your father; he used 
to pick me up like a child in his dear strong 
arms. But there, your mother is coming — ^she 
must not see me crying; it would distress her,” 
she said, turning her head away to wipe her eyes 
and draw her veil over her face. ‘ ‘ The light is 
a little glaring to-day, and a veil is the next 
blessing to spectacles for old eyes like mine,” 
she remarked to Mrs. Morley, as they drove down 
the avenue. 

’Beth was deeply touched, and she knew now 
what it was that had been wasting the dear old 
life away. “Oh,” she said, looking sadly after 
them, “I wish that she could find help where 
mamma has found it! ” Then, with quiet steps, 
she went to the drawing-room, where a fine por 
trait of her father hung, and before which fresh 
flowers were daily placed. She stood looking up 
at it until tears blinded her eyes; then, throwing 
herself into one of the great chairs near by, in a 
perfect abandon of grief, she sobbed: “No won- 
der, no wonder they loved you so, my darling 
papa! — so good, so true, so brave, your noble face 
showing it all as plain as if it were written in a 
book!” and bowing her head upon her arm, she 


’bkth’s promise. 




wept softly, until the emotions, so suddenly 
awakened, had ceased. She was still sitting in 
the quiet, shaded room, when she heard the 
sound of wheels upon the gravel, then the patter 
of Lodo's feet on the stairs and in the hall, as if 
she were in search of something, and this re- 
minded her of her drive. She felt so sad that 
she would have preferred not to go ; but now that 
everything had been prepared for her pleasure, 
she felt that it would be selfish to disappoint not 
only Lodo, but Aunt ’Beth, by remaining at 
home without a reasonable excuse. She rose 
instantly and went into the hall, and seeing Lodo 
on the veranda with a lunch-basket in her hand, 
ready to stow away in the phaeton, she called 
her, and, saying that she would be ready in a 
moment, ran up to her room to bathe her face 
and get a light wrap; then hurried down, threw 
on her hat, and stepped into the phaeton. Lodo 
was beside her in a minute, and after spreading 
the linen carriage duster carefully over their 
knees, and giving Peg one more affectionate pat, 
she gathered up the reins with the air of a jockey , 
and they were off. A light top protected them 
from the sun; there was nothing to wish for to 
make their enjoyment complete, either in the 
clear, bright atmosphere, the balmy air, or the 
picturesque road over which they rolled without 
jar or jolt; while Peg, as if conscious of his new 
finery, and proud of the bright, youthful faces 
and merry voices of the girls, ambled along with 


273 


’bkth’s PROMISK. 


the most satisfied air imaginable, tossing his 
head now and then with a whinny that sounded 
very much like a laugh. At last a turn in the 
road brought them in view of the lake, with all 
its bright glimmer and motion, its flitting sails 
and picturesque shores on the other side. Be- 
fore them was a long stretch of level, white sand, 
the woods coming down almost -to the v/ater’s 
edge, showing between their great gnarled 
trunks, huge, rocky boulders, with a wealth of 
moss and lichens on their old gray faces. 

“ Drive close down to the water, Lodo; I feel 
as though I should like to go right into it!’’ 
said ’Beth, taking a long breath as if she were 
inhaling the refreshment and beauty of the 
scene. 

“Do you, mem? I’d a sight rather go into 
the woods up yonder! ’ ’ 

“There’s a boat — oh what a beauty! — fastened 
to a post, Lodo, and the water is very shallow ; 
can’t you drive near enough for me to step into 
the boat and sit there a little while? Oh do, Lodo! 
I’ve been used to boats all my life, and there’s 
not the slightest danger, for I can row like a 
sailor and swim like a frog — papa taught me; and 
now don’t you see how perfectly safe it will be! ” 
exclaimed ’Beth, to whom the sight of the blue 
bright water had been like a cool draught to a 
thirsty man. 

“Yes, mem : it can be done, I suppose,” said 
Lodo, eying the pretty white and scarlet boat 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


273 


askance, as it swung to and fro on the crisp 
dancing waves; ‘‘I know the bottom’s hard, 
mem, but then I’ve heard the old fisherman, that 
brings fish to ‘Ellerslie,’ say that there’s an 
awful current, whatever that is. ’ ’ 

‘‘Now, Ivodo, I’ll tell you what you will do. 
I want some ferns, but I don’t feel like scramb- 
ling about up yonder among the rocks to gather 
them — I prefer the boat; so drive Peg near 
enough for me to jump into it and be rocked on 
the water once more; then you can hitch him 
somewhere in the shade, while you run into the 
woods and get the ferns for me. I’m sure he’ll 
behave beautifully until you come back. What 
nicer arrangement could you ask ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, mem,” said the girl, still hesitating; 
“but, mem, I don’t like the looks of that rope; 
it’s rotten — I know it is!” 

“ Lodo, if you don’t drive me right in. I’ll 
take the reins myself,” said ’Beth, in a very 
positive tone. 

“Yes, mem,” answered Lodo, her eyes grow- 
ing larger, and her face a shade paler, as she 
drove into the clear shallow water, which Peg 
no sooner felt laving his feet, than he gave ex- 
pression to his enjoyment by a loud, exultant 
whinny. Lodo echoed it with a merry laugh, 
and felt better satisfied when they arrived at the 
boat, to discover that the water did not reach to 
his knees, and the sandy bottom was as har 1 as 
a floor. 


9' 


274 


’beth’s promise. 


’Beth sprang into the boat, and seating hen elf 
in the stern, laid her hands on each vSide of it, 
and began to rock the light little craft and enjoy 
herself. “Oh, hodo! this is splendid! I wish 
you would get in too, just to see how nice it is; 
but I suppose you won’t, as it is impossible to 
take Peg and the phaeton in,” she cried, with 
childish delight. People living inland, know 
nothing at all of the passion that persons have 
for the water who have always been accustomed 
to it. In the landscape, it is to them like eyes 
in the human face. There’s a blank and a thirst 
when it is absent, and they see only mountains, 
fields or plains around them, and they long for 
its refreshment and beauty with a longing that 
cannot be expressed. So ’Beth’s glee was only 
the joy of meeting an old friend, and she went 
on rocking the boat until Lodo, afraid that she 
would upset it, turned Peg’s head shoreward, her 
last words being: “Indeed, mem, you’re strain- 
ing that old rope. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Lodo, if I only had oars, Pd row across 
the lake, and you’d think I was Ellen Douglass! 
But I’ll just sit here and rock, and sing, and 
paddle my hands in the water, to make believe,” 
said ’Beth, while Lodo thanked fortune that 
there were no oars to lead her dear young lady 
into more reckless mischief than she was already 
engaged in. She soon found a shady spot for 
Peg and the phaeton, and having fastened the 
reins to a tree, she ran swiftly up into the woods 


’beth’s promise. 


275 


to gather the ferns and other wild-wood beauties 
that she knew of, determined to make haste 
back, not sure but that a whale or some other 
dreadful monster would rise, from the bottom 
of the lake and swallow ’Beth during her ab- 
sence. 

There, all alone with the sweet, dreamy surg- 
ing of the waves lapping the sides of the boat, 
and melting with gentle sighs upon the shore, 
the long bright expanse of blue dancing water 
stretching away into the distance before her, and 
the gentle, rocking motion, ’Beth grew thought- 
ful and dreamy. En rapport with nature, she 
now yielded to its influences as entirely as though 
she were reading a poem of some master-mind ; 
nor did she know how swiftly the moments had 
sped until she was aroused by a piercing shriek. 
Starting up, she cast a swift glance around her, 
and discovered that she was adrift, and quite a 
distance from the shore, where Todo stood ges- 
ticulating and shrieking in the most frantic way. 
The old rope had either broken or been too 
loosely tied to the post, and had become un- 
fastened while she was in dreamland; and there 
she was, without oars, and no help at hand. 

‘‘Don’t be frightened, Lodo,” she called out 
in brave tones, after having by a sign stilled the 
girl’s shrill screams; “it’s lovely out here; no 
haim can come to me; I’ll just drift along until 
a fisher-boat sees me. ’ ’ 

But lyodo only stopped long enough to hear 


276 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


what ’Beth said, then began again filling the ail 
with her piercing cries. 

Out there alone, drifting gently on, soft winds 
blowing back her hair, brightness around and 
above her, with a sense of freedom from every 
earthly care and grief, a sweet, restful feeling 
stole into ’Beth’s heart, and she felt that even 
thus she would be contented to float on and on 
to the end. But the land-bre€:ze^ which had 
freshened, brought Lodo’s shrieks nearer, rous- 
ing her from her dreamy reverie to a full sense 
of the situation, and her cheek paled, for she 
could not really see the end of her adventure. 
She was not in the least frightened, and but fot 
the thought of the dreadful alarm her mother and 
Aunt ’Beth would be thrown into if she did not 
get back, in some way or by some means not yet 
apparent, she would have laughed at Lodo’s 
childish terror, and looked upon it all as a de- 
lightful joke. But the thought of the dear 
ones at ‘‘Ellerslie ” gave a gloomy aspect to the 
affair, and she wondered if she could make her- 
self heard on shore, now that she had drifted 
still farther out. 

“ Lodo, Lodo! don’t you go back to ‘Ellerslie’ 
without me,” she shouted through her hands; 
and a faint ‘‘No mem,” came back to her, as the 
boat, dancing with the waves, floated farther and 
farther away — not rapidly, but steadily, widening 
the distance between her and the shore. She 
measured the distance ; she was sure it was not 


’beth’s promise. 


277 


more than a mile, and, after a moment’s thought, 
made up her mind to swim back; and she found 
herself wondering what Lodo would do, and 
what extravagance she would commit, when she 
saw her plunge into the lake. She unbuttoned 
her boots, and unfastened her belt to gather up 
the folds of her dress, when, looking shoreward 
once more, she saw a man suddenly emerge fi om 
the woods. He looked at that distance like a 
gentleman, and had a large portfolio under his 
arm. He had been attracted to the spot by 
Lodo’s shrieks of distress, and stood for an in- 
stant looking at her, then at the boat towards 
which she wildly pointed; he saw no oars, and 
took in the situation at a glance. It was the 
work of a moment to fling off coat and vest and 
toss them down, divest himself of cap and heavy 
walking-boots, which he pitched in a heap with 
them and his portfolio; then he plunged into the 
lake, and struck out bravely for the boat. ’ Beth 
had watched it all, and was now really terrified. 
“Suppose he is not a good swimmer; suppose he 
gets the cramp, and drowns? Oh, I wish I had 
not been so rash! I wish I had not come to the 
lake! Why did I not notice the old rope, as wise 
little Lodo bade me? Oh pity, sweet Virgin 
Mother, and let no harm come to others through 
my foolish act!” It was nothing new for ’Beth 
to breathe an invocation to Our Blessed Lady, 
whose supreme sorrows, endured with the suffer- 
ings of her Divine Son for mankind, ever drew 


278 ’bkth’s promise. 

her with tender compassion and reverent love 
tow’ards her. 

She sat perfectly motionless, with folded hands 
resting on her lap, watching the swimmer’s bold, 
strong strokes, as he dashed the waters aside like 
a sea-king. Nearer and nearer he came, and 
’Beth wondered who he might be: his brown 
waving hair was cut close, showing a fine broad 
brow and well-shaped head; his eyes were large 
and dark; his chin round and resolute, and his 
mouth, slightly open, revealed fine even teeth 
beneath a long drooping moustache. It was 
a handsome manly face, exhibiting a grave, 
tender expression, that would have won a 
woman’s trust among strangers and in distress, 
if she needed protection or help. Now he is near 
enough to speak. ‘ ‘ How dreadfully embarrass- 
ing!” thought ’Beth; “what on earth shall I 
say to him?” 

“You are all right now, madam. I hope you 
have not been frightened,” he said, cheerily. 

“No, but I am sorry to be the cause of so 
much trouble. I’m afraid you are very wet,” 
she replied, without thinking in her confusion 
of the absurdity of what she said. 

“I am used to that,” he replied, laughing, as 
he swam around, fishing for the rope, “and have 
enjoyed my swim amazingly. I feel quite Don 
Quixote-y swimming out to the rescue of a dis- 
tressed damsel. Ah, here it is at last!” he said, 
grasping the rope. 


^beth’s promise. 


279 


’Beth felt her cheeks crimson; she thought he 
was laughing at her, and she said: “I was just 
getting ready to swim back, but you came — ’ ’ 

“Swim! you would have drowned. Pm very 
thankful I heard that little woman screaming,’’ 
he said, gravely, all the merriment gone out of 
his eyes. 

“I can swim, I assure you,” said ’Beth; “I 
have many a time swum farther than that; but 
had you not better get into the boat ? ’ ’ 

“I would — thanks! — but you see there are no 
oars, and I’m afraid we should go on drifting,” 
he answered respectfully, but evidently amused. 

“I am very sorry, but what is to be done 
about it?” she asked, her beautiful eyes full of 
trouble. 

“I’m going to tow you in.” 

“But you can’t swim with one hand!” she 
exclaimed. 

“Yes I can, easily; the boat’s a light weight, 
even with you in it. But perhaps you are Un- 
dine, and expect some of your water-sprites from 
the bottom of the lake to come to your rescue?” 

“No, I am. not Undine,” she answered, 
gravely, again thinking he was laughing at her; 
“I am only an ordinary mortal, and very grate- 
ful for what you have done. ’ ’ 

“Don’t thank me, please — it makes every- 
thing so prosaic,” he said, with a nod and a 
smile; then turning the bow of the boat towards 
the shore, he wrapped the rope around his strong 


28 o 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


arm and swam without difficulty, drawing it 
along swiftly after him. ’Beth thought if he 
did not get a sudden cramp and go down, or 
pneumonia, or some other illness, from being so 
long in the water, she would be more than 
thankful, since her thoughtless act alone would 
be the cause of such misfortunes, should they 
come. “It is quite romantic,” she thought, 
‘ ‘ and I dare say I shall have many a laugh over 
it; but, for all that, it is very embarrassing.” 

At last the shore was reached. Lodo, all 
smiles and tears, had the phaeton down to the 
very edge of the water, and the stranger, draw- 
ing the boat to the sands, almost beaching her, 
helped ’Beth in. 

‘ ‘ I thank you very much, ’ ’ she said, with 
gentle courtesy; “but you are so drenched, 
won’t you please get in and let us drive you 
home ? There’s plenty of room, if one of us sits 
in the rumble. ’ ’ 

“Oh, no: a thousand thanks; but I wouldn’t 
get in for the world, to spoil your pretty cushions. 
Besides, I have heaps of dry clothes lying over 
there. I’ll run now and beach my boat until a 
new rope can be had; then I shall walk home 
very fast, and be dry by the time I get there.” 

“Won’t you have some lunch, then? Here’s a 
a basket full of cold chicken, bread and butter — 
jelly, too, I believe; and what’s this, Lodo?” 
said ’Beth, uncovering the basket, arid turning 
things over. 


^beth’s promise. 


281 


“Claret, mem. I tliought you’d like it, and 
I put in a bottle. ’ ’ 

“lam hungry, that’s a fact,” said the mat- 
ter-of-fact stranger, frankly; “and if you’ll just 
leave me a bite of something, I shall enjoy it 
amazingly. ’ ’ 

In an instant Lodo was out, taking the basket 
with her, and spreading a napkin on a large 
stump; she arranged at least half their plenteous 
lunch upon it, with plate, knife and fork, and 
goblet; also, at a sign from ’Beth, the bottle of 
claret, while their strange friend beached his 
boat high, and resumed his dry garments, his 
boots and cap. 

“There’s your lunch, sir,” said Lodo, point- 
ing to the rustic table she had improvised, as he 
returned. 

“Oh, thanks! it reminds me of the Golden 
Age; but you are not going?” 

“Yes, and good-bye, with many thanks,” said 
’Beth. 

revoir^'''' he said, bowing, determined 
that this should not be their last meeting. He 
did not tell her who he was, afraid of being for- 
mally thanked by her friends for the service he 
had rendered her; while she refrained from men- 
tioning her own name, lest he should feel com- 
pelled by courtesy to call and inquire after her 
health, and of course be admitted. ’Beth was 
not ungrateful, but she felt the situation to be 
an awkward one, and had just enough of the 


282 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


mauvais honte of a school-girl left to shrink from 
seeing him again. 

“I’m very hungry, too, Lodo; is there any- 
thing left?” said ’Beth, as they were driving 
homewards. “But oh! Lodo, what made you 
scream so? I wish you hadn’t.” 

“And if I hadn’t, mem, where would you he 
this blessed minute ? It was my screams that 
brought him; he said so. Laws, mem, how 
could I ever have faced ‘Ellerslie’ without you!” 

“That’s true, Lodo. Thank you then for 
screaming; but give me a ham sandwich and a 
pickle, for I’m just about famished; then some 
cold chicken. But I won’t eat a thing if you 
don’t take something, too; that’s a good child; 
stop under the trees here until we eat everything 
that’s left. Oh, it was too splendid out there on 
the lake! If I had only had a pair of oars! But 
where are the ferns, Lodo?” 

“Well, mem, I think I must have flung them 
somewhere up there among the trees; I was that 
scared when I saw you sailing away all alone, by 
— by — yourself, and I’m so — so — so glad, mem — 
you’re safe!” answered Lodo, bursting into a 
regular sobbing fit, which relieved her affection- 
ate heart, while ’ Beth wiped her tears away, and 
kissed her, which seemed to make up for every- 
thing; after which they finished their lunch and 
drove home. 

When they got back to “Ellerslie,” ’Beth 
went in gayly, determined to put the very 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


283 


brightest face she could on the adventure of the 
morning, yet feeling a little timid as to its effect 
on her mother, whom she found with Aunt ’Beth 
in the lovely summer sitting-room — the windows 
of which opened to the floor, giving beautiful 
glimpses of lawn and trees — where they were 
talking quietly, and sewing for Aunt ’Beth’s 
“ Dorcas-basket, ” as she called it, from which a 
store of warm garments, accumulated during the 
summer months, were distributed among her 
needy pensioners when the first frosts came. The 
air of the large pleasant room was perfumed 
with sweet odors from the flower-beds without; 
and now ’Beth’s laughing, blooming face, her 
eyes sparkling with the excitement of her adven- 
ture, as she came in swinging her big straw hat 
in her hand, while her sunny nut-brown hair, 
broken away from her comb, and hanging around 
her in loose curling tresses, was like a sudden 
brightness. Both looked up with welcoming 
smiles, and dropping on the floor before them, 
she exclaimed: ‘‘Oh, mamma, oh Aunt ’Beth, 
such a lovely time!” 

“ I was afraid Peg had kept on to Geneva with 
you, you have been gone so long,” said Aunt 
’Beth, resting her little hands on her lap, and 
looking with fond eyes into the bright, happy 
ones uplifted to hers. 

“Aunt ’Beth, Peg deserves golden shoes! and 
as to Ivodo, she’s the champion screamer of the 
United States, and must have a silver trumpet!” 


284 


’BETH'S PROMISE. 


‘‘’Beth dear, how extravagantly you are nin< 
ning on,” said Mrs. Morley, smoothing back 
’Beth’s rebellious curls. 

“You won’t think so, my darling mamma, 
when you hear all that has happened since you 
saw me last.” Then, her face dimpled with 
smiles, she told them of her adventure from be- 
ginning to end. Mrs. Morley’ s face grew a 
shade paler as she listened, and she took ’Beth’s 
hand, holding it folded in both her own, as if to 
assure herself that she was indeed safe; but Aunt 
’Beth was highly interested, and laughed quite 
heartily once or twice, especially when the young 
man appeared on the scene, interrupting the girl 
to ask: “And what did he say?” and “What 
did you say?” and when she answered: “I told 
him I was afraid he was very wet,” Aunt ’Beth 
laughed, and Mrs. Morley also laughed for the 
first time. 

“Very well; since you are so fond of boats, 
my dear, you shall have one with oars. I have 
friends in Geneva who will manage it for me. 
But, ’Beth, your desperate intention to swim 
ashore frightens me a little, and I am very thank- 
ful it was stopped in time to save you from 
drowning. ’ ’ 

“She used to be a splendid swimmer; I think 
she could have made the distance without diffi- 
culty; but I hope there’ll be no need to attempt 
any such risks in the future. But, dear, you 
have not yet told us the name of the gentleman 


'beth’s promise. 


285 


wlio came so opportunely to yonr assistance,” 
said Mrs. Morley. 

“I don’t know it; lie didn’t tell his name, nor 
I mine.” 

“Well,” said Aunt ’Beth, “such primitive 
simplicity is refreshing. The man must be 
thanked; you should have thought of that, my 
dear, for he certainly did you a great service, 
and saved your mother and me no end of a 
shock. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh it was so embarrassing. Aunt ’ Beth — you 
can’t think — without asking his name. But I 
gave him some lunch, v/hich he seemed very 
glad to get, and a bottle of claret too. ’ ’ 

“I am glad you gave him something to eat; 
he must have needed it after his wetting. I wish 
I could find out who he is, to thank him. I have 
a sort of presentiment that we haven’ t heard the 
last of him. I’ll see about the boat, though; — ■ 
water, I remember, is your favorite element.'” 

“Don’t, Aunt ’Beth, please,” said Mrs. Mor- 
ley. 

“Nonsense, Anne. Won’t it be better for her 
to have a boat of her own with oars, than to take 
some body’s else and go drifting off to Jericho In 
it? There won’t always be a man at hand to 
swim out and tow her in. Besides, she can teach 
lyodo how to row.” 

“Aunt ’Beth, Lodo is as much afraid of the 
water as a cat. I believe she would have a fit if 
she should be put into a boat,” said ’Beth, laugh- 


286 . ’beth’s promise. 

ing; “but I can row you and mamma all over 
the lake. ’ ’ 

“We’ll see about that,” remarked Aunt ’Beth, 
pulling her little pink ear. “As you can swim, 
I will not order life-preservers with the boat.” 
The dear old lady was quite agreeably stirred up, 
and her thoughts turned into a new channel, 
which cheered and revived her wonderfully. 

’Beth was secretly enchanted at the idea of 
having a boat, but did not say much, as she 
feared her mother did not quite wish it; and hav- 
ing nothing more to relate, she ran up to her 
room to change her dress for something lighter, 
and’ devote the hour or two before dinner to 
reading. 

Aunt ’ Beth put down her work, and going to 
the house-keeper’s room, directed Mrs. Trott to 
select several fine caulifiowers and send them, 
with her compliments, to Mrs. Dulaney, who had 
mentioned that, owing to the negligence of the 
gardener, they had none at “ Tracy-Holme. ” 

“Didn’t you know that they had all gone to 
Geneva, Miss Morley? Mr. Dulaney is in New 
York, and even the priest’s gone somewhere. 
There isn’ t a soul at home ; the dairy-maid was 
here this morning to borrow that butter-print 
with the bird cut on it, and she told me,” said 
Mrs. Trott. “She says they’re all coming back 
Saturday, and that there's going to be a double 
wedding in the family before long, between the 
two sons and those pretty Marston girls that the 
old people are so fond of.” 


'beth’s promise. 


287 


My dear woman,” said Aunt ’Beth, ‘Mon’t 
gossip with our neighbors’ people about their 
family affairs; I object to it” 

“Laws, Miss Morley, I didn’t ask her a ques- 
tion! I didn’t know nothing about ’em to ask. 
She just told all she knew without taking breath, 
while I was getting the butter-print for her, and 
] wouldn’t have thought of it again if you hadn’t 
told me to send the cauliflowers over there, and 
so I had to tell you!” 

“Send them Saturday, then, Mrs. Trott,” 
said Aunt ’Beth, a little diverted at the woman’s 
logic. 

“I will, indeed, Mrs. Morley. I like the Du 
laneys; they’re a good lot; but I think it’s a 
great pity they’re papists.” 

“I suppose you mean Roman Catholic^ ?”said 
Aunt ’Beth, with a snap of her white, even teeth. 
“Don’t forget that Roman Catholics are Chris- 
tians, and have a right to worship God under 
their ‘own vine and flg-tree,’ as much as you 
Congregatioualists have. And remember what 
St. Paul says — you read your Bible every day, 
and will recollect — he says, ‘there’s Faith, Hope 
and Charity, but the greatest of these is Charity,’ 
and I agree with him.” 

“Yes, ma’am; Paul says a great many things 
hard to be understood. I don’t hold with all he 
has written, ’ ’ answered Mrs. Trott, as she snapped 
open another egg on the edge of a pan for the 
cake she was preparing to make. 


288 


’beth^s promise. 


“You may think what you please about St 
Paul; but when we see people fulfilling the Chris- 
tian law in their daily life, it is reasonable to sup- 
pose that they are Christians, and I don’t think 
it is right to call them names as if they v/ere 
heathen. I never do it,” said the positive old 
lady, with a sparkle in her eyes that Mrs. Trott 
did not observe, being intent on breaking her 
eggs with great care, lest a speck of the yolk 
should get mixed with the whites. 

“I’m only sorry for them that’s in the 
gall and bitterness of error,” she answered 
with a sniff. 

“We must take care of one thing, Mrs. Trott, 
and that is, not to let the beam in our own eye 
make us think it’s in our neighbor’s. You have 
forgotten an egg by niy count; there, it’s all right 
now. Send Todo to me,” said Aunt ’Beth as sh<^- 
went out. 

The next day, after an early dinner, the phaeton 
was brought round, and ’Beth got ready for a 
drive with Lodo, who was, of course, to hold the 
reins. They were to go in a different direction 
from that of yesterday, up towards the hill 
country, where the roads for quite a distance 
were good, and the views picturesque. 

“Do be careful, my ’Beth, and don’t attempt 
to drive,” said Mrs. Morley, who was waiting to 
see them off. 

“No, mamma, I promise; the danger will all 
be with the young gypsy this time. I shouldn’t 


’bkth’s promise. 


289 

be surprised if she’d drive me away to some far- 
off haunt in the woods to see her friends, the 
‘good people,’ and never bring me back,” said 
'Beth, with a merry laugh. 

“Take care of yourselves, Lodo!” said Mrs. 
Morley, smiling at ’Beth’s light-hearted non- 
sense. 

“Yes, mem, I will surely. Now Peg!” — then 
with a chirrup, Todo gave the reins a slight 
shake, and they were off, down the old avenue, 
out upon the smooth, shaded road, winding 
through a beautifully wooded stretch of country, 
past snug farm-houses, cultivated fields, and ele- 
gant summer homes embowered in trees, until 
they began to ascend more elevated ground, where 
the road was steep and narrow. There seemed to 
be very little travel over it; they met one or two 
light country w^agons, and now and then groups 
of rough-looking men, surly fellows, begrimed 
with coal-dust, skulking along the road-side, who 
stared at the gay little phaeton and its pretty oc- 
cupants with lowering eyes, as it swept past 
them. ’Beth felt a little timid, and proposed 
turning back; but Lodo, accustomed to seeing 
laborers from the iron-works, assured her there 
was no reason for alarm, explained who the men 
where, and said what a pity it would be to spoil 
their drive, but was quite willing to do just as 
Miss ’ Beth said. But “ Miss ’ Beth, ’ ’ half ashamed 
of her cowardice, said she might drive on, which 
the girl did very gladly, until they came to a 
10 


290 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


point which commanded a distant view of the 
lake, and the gray ivy-draped towers of “Ellers- 
lie,” the place where, years before, ’Beth’s 
father turned to look at his old home, which he 
was never to see again. Lodo drew up under a 
tree, that ’Beth might enjoy the beautiful view 
at her leisure, while she pointed out this thing 
and that, and told her one or two legends of cer- 
tain localities of the neighborhood that were 
marked by blasted trees, or a tall chimney from 
which the house, ruined by fire and tempest, had 
dropped away, which were conspicuous features 
in the landscape. Peg, hearing the voice so dear 
to his half-humanized heart, cropped the rich 
grass at his feet, lifting his head now and then 
with a toss to give a whinny of approval to what- 
ever she might be saying; then, as if waiting for 
the merry laugh that always responded to his 
performance, he quietly resumed his dainty feast 
— not that he was in the least hungry, but he 
dearly loved grass that was sweet and juicy, and 
being somewhat restricted in the use of his fav- 
orite luxury by his English keeper at “Ellerslie,” 
he never lost an opportunity to forage on it when 
chance led him to it, as now. 

Lodo having finished her legends, ’Beth 
dropped into silence, and sat with folded hands 
gazing far into the distance. The sun was sink- 
ing westward, and the sky was spread with a 
royal splendor of fire-lit crimson and long dashes 
of gold, with traceries of purple and aqua-marine 


bkth’s promise. 


29^ 

between. The air was filled with chattering 
swallows revelling in fantastic flights, and going 
through swift evolutions as if they were execut- 
ing aerial dances with sunbeam and wind ; in the 
distance fluttered a procession of crows, going 
home with full crops from their feeding-grounds. 
How still, how bright, how like a poetic spell, all 
this sunlighted space, with the distant water 
flashing back the brightness! ’Beth did not 
speak; her heart was filled with memories that 
carried her thoughts out of the present, with 
tender, sacred hopes, into the beyond; it was the 
effect that such scenes always had upon her. 
But she was aroused from her musing by an em- 
phatic jerk of Lodo’s elbow, and a half fright- 
ened whisper: ‘‘There’s some one coming, mem.” 
’Beth listened; she heard distinctly the rapid 
lioof-beats of a horse at full speed, and in another 
moment the rider had turned a curve in the road; 
but on seeing the phaeton, he suddenly checked 
his headlong course. ’ Beth saw at a glance that 
the gentleman was her friend of the lake. He 
approached, and touching his hat, said in a low, 
hurried voice: “You had better turn back, ladies, 
at once. There’s a strike at the iron-works, and 
the men are very turbulent. If you are going 
in the neighborhood of ‘Ellerslie,’ I will ask 
permission to ride alongside, for presently the 
road will be swarming with rough men.” 

‘ ‘ How very kind ! — yes, we are going to ‘ Ellers- 
lie’; I am staying there with my aunt. Miss 


^BETH’S PROMISE. 


292 

Morley,” said’ Beth, her cheek paling. ‘‘If yon 
will be so good, we shall be very thankful to 
have you accompany us.” 

“Oh lordy, mem! is it a strike?” murmured 
Lodo, under her breath. She knew something 
about strikes, and she touched Peg on his flanks 
with the delicate riding-whip which she carried 
more for ornament than use, and he started al- 
most on a run, knowing well enough that when 
he got a hint like that, it meant go, 

“I hope I haven’t frightened you,” said the 
gentleman ; ‘ ‘ but I thought we had no time to 
lose, and at the risk of appearing officious, I 
dared not go on and leave you up there alone at 
such a time. Don’t thank me, please,” he added, 
with the same laugh in his eyes that ’Beth re- 
membered so well, ‘ ‘ for the pleasure is all on my 
side, you know. ’ ’ 

“You have a very opportune way of coming 
to the rescue of distressed damsels. Perhaps you 
are a guardian angel with your wings folded 
away under your coat?” laughed ’Beth. 

“Perhaps your guardian angel, or mine, had 
more to do with it than we know,” he replied, 
laughing. “I am simply human.” 

“And I was almost scolded when I got home 
yesterday for not knowing your name. It was 
the first question mamma and Aunt ’Beth— Miss 
Morley — asked me, after I told them what had 
happened at the lake. They wanted to thank 
you for the rescue.” 


beth’s promise. 


now, it is not pleasant to be thanked; it 
spoils everything, and makes a fellow feel rather 
flat, you know, ’ ’ he answered, flushing up to the 
roots of his hair. 

“You want to be mysterious, then, and have 
us speak of you as ‘the unknown knight,’ and 
think that you drop from the clouds?” said 
’Beth, wondering at herself for running on so 
with a stranger; but she was embarrassed at the 
re7tcontre^ and feeling quite desperate, talked in 
preference to sitting there in awkward silence. 

“You could not think that, seeing how glad I 
was to get your bread and butter. I was as hun- 
gry as a kite, and didn’t stop until I had eaten 
everything,” he answered. 

“You deserved your lunch, I’m sure,” said 
’Beth; “but I can’t face Aunt ’Beth this time 
without knowing who you are. She’d be apt to 
think you an evil spirit who gets up occasions to 
appear, and I should never be allowed to go out- 
side of ‘ Ellerslie ’ again. ’ ’ 

“She might think me a highway robber with 
better reason, since I still hold possession of her 
silver forks and spoons, that you so obligingly 
left with the cold chicken and things,” he re- 
plied. 

“Oh, mem,” said Lodo in a low tone, “ask 
him if he’s got ’em all safe — for I’ve been so wor- 
ried about them!” ’Beth laughed, for she saw 
from the suppressed amusement shown in every 
line of the stranger’s face, that this aside had 


2 gd ’beth’s promise. 

been overheard, and they were going slowly 
through a stretch of deep sand, where it required 
no effort to catch every word that was spoken. 

“A fine table napkin too, a china plate, and a 
cut-glass goblet, all of which I have at home, 
nicely packed, to be delivered, with thanks, to 
their owner. But jesting aside: I was only wait- 
ing, Miss Morley, to be presented at ‘ Ellerslie ’ 
in due form by my mother, Mrs. Dulaney; but 
she is visiting with her young friends in Geneva, 
and I have been obliged to defer the pleasure of 
calling to inquire after you. I am Bertie Du- 
laney, at your service,” he said, raising his hat. 

‘‘ How delightful to think of our being neigh- 
bors! — but how did you find out my name, Mr. 
Dulaney ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I saw you at Mass yesterday morning, and 
asked Father Hagner at breakfast who you were.” 

“I’ve heard so much about you and your 
brother that you do not seem at all like a 
stranger. I’m afraid it would make you both 
vain to know how often you’ve been wished for, 
and impatiently expected; and as we are such 
near neighbors, we can be good friends, after our 
odd and accidental acquaintance.” All feeling 
of reserve was gone. ’Beth Morley remembered 
what she had heard of his being engaged to 
Elaine Marston; what then was to hinder their 
being on the best and friendliest of terms? They 
were out of the sand by this time, and among 
the stones, over which they rattled noisilv, with 


’BKTH’S PROMrSK* 


295 


little jars and jolts that precluded any furthei 
conversation, which Bertie Dulaney did not ob- 
ject to, for his mind was so full of the beautiful 
face that had been smiling into his that he was 
satisfied just to think, and so he had been occu- 
pied ever since he -had found ’Beth adrift on the 
lake. 


2g6 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

IIIGH-TEA AT “ELEERSUE.” 

Mrs. Dueaney and the Marstons returned 
home on Saturday evening, and, to their delight, 
found that the ‘‘boys” — as they were usually 
spoken of by their parents — had come. Bertie 
arrived the day after they went away to Geneva; 
and after the first loving welcomes were over, 
and the joyful excitement had somewhat sub- 
sided, he was roundly taken to task by the girls 
for not having immediately joined them there, 
for which delinquency he had no bettei excuse 
to offer than that he “was too happy to find 
himself at home once more, to want to start 
right off again. ’ ’ What his adventures had been, 
and how he had spent his time, he did not relate, 
even when his mother told him how sorry she 
was that he had been so lonely in the empty 
house, without a soul to speak to, and forbade 
another word of reproach being uttered to the 
poor, dear fellow! 

Paul Dulaney came up from New York, with 
his father, in the afternoon train. They were all 
together once more, and it would not be too much 
to say that a happier reunion had never taken 
place. 


’bkth’s promise:. 


297 


They were all at Mass on Sunday; and Beth 
thought Mr. Dulaney held his head a trifle 
higher, and wore a proud look of content on his 
face, as he walked up the aisle with his two tall 
handsome sons, one of them fair, the other dark 
— both plainly dressed, and looking every inch 
gentlemen. Their demeanor was reverent ana 
devout; born Catholics, the principles of their 
faith, fostered by a religious education, had 
“grown with their growth, and strengthened 
with their strength,” and had become a second 
and higher nature, which to question or doubt 
would have seemed to them little short of mad- 
ness — or to shrink from confessing openly, a base 
betrayal of true manliness and courage. 

Father Hagner’s face wore a troubled look, as 
did many of the poorer members of the little 
congregation, and well they might. He had 
been up at the iron-works, among the turbu- 
lent strikers, exhausting himiself in a, so far, 
vain attempt to convince them of their mis- 
take, and restore order. Their own priest 
was some thirty miles away, in another part 
of his mission, but had been telegraphed for, 
in the hope that, having labored among them 
for many years and being regarded by them 
as a faithful friend, he would be able to in- 
fluence them to give up their unreasonable de- 
mands. Father Hagner gave a short instruc- 
tion; his heart was full of the misery, and per- 
haps crime, impending over the misguided men 


2q8 


’beth’s promise. 


at tlie '4ron works,” but the only allusion he 
made to the affair was after Mass, when he re- 
quested those present to say a decade of the 
rosary with him, that peace might be restored, 
which they did fervently, some of them with 
half-stifled sobs, for they had husbands and sons 
engaged in the strike. ’Beth glanced at the 
Dulaney pew just then, and saw a chaplet in the 
hands of each of its occupants, as they knelt 
aiding in the rosary. There was no sham in 
these young men. Had one noticed, one would 
have seen that they did not make a merely 
meaningless sign with their fingers on their shirt 
front when they made the sign of the cross, but 
did it in a decorous and earnest way not to be 
mistaken; and that they were not ashamed to 
pause and use the holy water at the door, turn- 
ing their face towards the altar, and bowing 
their heads as they crossed themselves with the 
blessed drops. 

The Dulaneys were out under the old trees, 
waiting to greet Mrs. Morley and ’Beth, and in- 
troduced their sons, Bertie and Paul. They all 
walked together to the gate, in pleasant con- 
verse, where they separated with kindly ex- 
pressed hopes of meeting again very soon, each 
turning their respective ways — yet not all, for 
Bertie Delaney asked Mrs. Morley’s permission 
CO attend her and ’Beth to their own door. 

‘‘Mr. Dulaney is afraid, mamma, that I shall 
run myself into some sort of danger between 


’peth’s promise. 


299 


here and the house, and thinks he had better be 
at hand,” said ’Beth, laughing, while a delicate 
flush stole over her face. 

Then Mrs. Morley told Bertie how glad she 
was of an opportunity to thank him for his 
good offices to her daughter, and how sincerely 
grateful she was to him. He treated it all as a 
trifle, was slightly embarrassed, and turned the 
conversation from himself as quickly as he could 
do so without appearing rude. He was sorry to 
find the way so short between the gate and 
“ Ellerslie” house, and made his bow reluctantly 
at the door, thinking his acquaintance was yet 
too recent for him to go in, as Mrs. Morley 
politely invited him to do. Then, half angry 
with himself for not accepting her invitation, 
and prolonging his interview with ’Beth, he 
walked slowly homeward, his mind full of a 
thousand little touches of dress and personality 
that made her his ideal of poetic girlhood. 

He’s a fine, manly fellow,” Mrs. Morley told 
Aunt ’Beth. He has a frank, truthful look in 
his eyes, and although his manner is quiet, it is 
easy to see that he is full of spirit. His life, 
doubtless, has been all sunshine.” 

“I wouldn’t give a snap of my finger for a 
young man without spirit; nor do I think that 
too much sunshine is good for them, Anne. 
Without difficulties and trials in some shape or 
other, what’s to bring out and strengthen the 
good that’s in them? I should hate Adonis him- 


300 ’bath’s promise;. 

self, il he had nothing but his beauty and giacc 
to recommend him. I always feel when I see a 
pretty, simpering man, with his hair curled by a 
barber, and his gloves fitted on by a milliner, as 
if I should like to dress him up in petticoats, 
and set him down to a spinning-wheel — though 
1 doubt if any of that sort are capable of doing 
anything so useful as making yarn,’’ said Aunt 
’Beth. 

‘‘Dear Aunt ’Beth,” said Mrs. Morley, amused 
at this tirade, “the world’s full of strange people 
— no two alike — all diiOfering in temperament 
and intellect.” 

“That is true. I should like to have the 
managing of some of them for a little while. 
The fact is, Anne, my temper’s on edge. I’ve 
been hearing more about those miserable fellows 
up yonder at the iron works, since you went to 
church. Gibbs, Elder & Co’s, factor — a man 
I’ve always known and respected — called to tell 
me about the strike; and after a good deal of 
beating about the bush, what do you suppose his 
errand was? — simply to beg of liie, in the name 
of his employers, to let it be known that I would 
extend no assistance to the families of such 
of the strikers as live in the neighborhood of 
‘Ellerslie.’ I told him to say that I was not a 
person to be dictated to, and while they might 
be sure I would offer no encouragement to the 
misguided men, I would not let their wives and 
children, who are innocent, suffer for bread. 


'beth’s promise. 


301 


They are the ones who should suffer. By their 
own foolish act, they have taken the bread out 
of their children’s mouths — the fools! — at a time, 
too, when the whole country seems to be running 
into bankruptcy! I’m going to drive up the 
road after dinner to see Robin Goode — or rather 
Bad, for I know he’s one of the ringleaders. He 
and his always come to me in their troubles; 
now I shall go to him, to see if I can put some 
common sense into his head. ’ ’ 

“But will it be safe, dear Aunt ’Beth, for you 
to go alone? Won’t you take one of the men 
along?” 

“No: that would not do at all. I’m not in 
the least afraid. The misfortune is this: they 
know that if the worst comes to the worst, I 
won’t let the women and children starve, or 
themselves either, for that matter — I mean those 
of them who live in this neighborhood. Know- 
ing this will help to demoralize them still more, 
and make them hold out longer. I’ll take Todo 
along, and see Robin Goode — he’s in the rolling- 
mills, and is a sort of speech-maker and political 
leader among the hands — and I’ll give him a talk 
that will make his hair stand on end,” said 
Aunt ’Beth, bringing her little hand down upon 
her knee with energy. 

“Are all the strikers Catholics?” inquired 
Mrs. Morley. 

“A great many of them are, and a great many 
others are Methodists and Nothingarians; but 


3oa 


’betii’s promise. 


they have all got the devil in them now, alike* 
Come, my child, there’s the dinner-bell. But 
where’s ’Beth?” she said, rising from her sofa, 
and taking Mrs. Morley’s arm. 

‘ ‘ She went up to her room to have a confer- 
ence with Ivodo, who asked for a catechism a day 
or two ago, and has been studying it. ’Beth 
hears her say what she learns, and answers her 
questions. You do not object, dear aunt?” an- 
swered Mrs. Morley. 

“Not I. Why should I, Anne? She’s more 
than half pagan, and I shall be very glad if you 
can make a good Christian of her — poor little 
waif!” said Aunt ’Beth, taking her high-backed 
chair at the head of the table, saying, “Now, my 
dear Anne, let us be cheerful, as well as thank- 
ful for the good things provided for us. ’ ’ 

Aunt ’Beth honestly thought she was saying 
grace; the words were the outcome of her heart’s 
fulness, expressing exactly what she felt. Mrs. 
Morley and ’Beth — who had now taken her 
place at table — crossed themselves, and in their 
hearts asked God’s blessing on the bounties of 
His providence, without attracting her attention, 
which was at that moment engaged in giving 
directions to Lodo about a certain jelly she 
wished brought from the store-room. 

Dinner over, true to her word. Aunt ’Beth, 
taking Lodo along, drove two miles up a cross- 
cut road to Robin Goode’s cottage. He was 
standing in his shirt-sleeves at the stile, his arms 


'BETH’S PROMISE. 


303 


folded on top of it, his old battered hat slouched 
down over his eyes, looking moodily at the 
ground, in deep thought. Had he seen in time 
who was coming, he would have gone off to the 
woods and hid himself; but he did not even hear 
the carriage wheels until they stopped quite near 
him, and a voice said: “Good day, Robin.” 
Then lifting his head, he saw “old lady Ellers- 
lie,” as the plainer classes around the country 
called her, and he knew that he would have to 
stand and listen to whatever she might have to 
say to him. He knew at once that, as ailing as 
she had been for a year past, she never would 
have driven so far, and on Sunday too, unless she 
had meant to give him a piece of her mind about 
the “strike,” a thing which years of kindness 
on her part, towards him and his, gave her a 
right to do. 

“Will you ’light, ma’am, and go in? My 
wife’s in there, and will be main proud to see 
you,” he said, taking off his old hat, revealing a 
large head, covered with black grizzled hair, 
and a face showing both force and honesty of 
purpose. 

“Not to-day, Robin. I have come to have a 
talk with you, and I want you to go up the road 
a little way with me, that we may not be inter- 
rupted,” she said, in her quick, decided way. 

“There’s nothing that anybody could say that 
would make any difference, ma’am,” he replied, 
in a surly tone, as he leaped the stile and walked 


304 


’bkth’s PROMISK. 


alongside the low carriage, while I^odo drove 
slowly under the shade of the great trees on the 
edge of the woods, until “old lady EHerslie” 
bade her stop. “141 hold the reins, Eodo, and 
you can go into the woods a little while. I wish 
to speak to Robin alone.” 

“141 keep in sight of them,” thought the girl, 
as she skipped out of the carriage, “and if any- 
thing happens, I can scream again. ’ ’ 

But nothing happened, except that Aunt ’Beth 
poured out her vial of wrath upon Robin Goode’s 
head. The substance of what she said was this: 
Did he know what a state the country was ki? 
Did he know that they had stopped building rail- 
roads everywhere on account of the times? Did 
he know that the iron manufacturers all over the 
country were closing, or working their mills on 
half time? Did he know that in the city of New 
York over sixty thousand workmen of various 
crafts had been cast adrift in one week, and were 
literally without bread, and without a prospect of 
work ahead, because their employers had failed? 
As it was there, so it was elsewhere through 
all the length and breadth of the land. Had he 
ever considered who furnished the capital and 
took all the risks of manufacturing on a large 
scale? Did he reflect that, while workmen were 
engaged in “strikes” for a few pennies more or 
less on their wages, their employers were obliged 
to contract their operations and reduce their ex- 
penses throughout, or fail? “And here,” she 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


305 


continued, ‘‘Giobs, Elder & Co., without profit 
to themselves, are willing to keep their mills 
running, only reducing your wages five per cent. , 
until the times mend. I tell you, Robin, you 
and your fellow-workmen are in the wrong; and 
seeing this, I tell you plainly that if you keep 
on, none of you need expect assistance from me, 
for you’ll bring all that you may have to suffer 
upon yourselves. I’ll shut up ‘Ellerslie’ and 
go away, and you can burn it down if you 
choose. Just wait a moment, Robin — I shall 
soon be done. There’s no telling what a thou- 
sand or more lawless men, out of work and want- 
ing bread, would be ready to do. I should not 
feel safe at ‘ Ellerslie,’ where I was born and have 
lived in peace all my days, if this goes on ; and 
I want to know this: if you can’t live on a few 
cents less a day, how much better can you live 
on nothing at all? You are all digging a pit for 
your feet, and will be sorry for it, I fear, only 
when it is too late. I read the papers, Robin 
Goode; I know what a panic there is throughout 
the country, such as was never known before; 
and I have come up here to warn you, and beg 
you, and your fellow- workmen through you, tc 
stop in time, and accept the terms offered by 
your late employers.” 

The energetic and excited little woman, whose 
generous heart was moved with the most chari- 
table intent towards the misguided men engaged 
in the “strike,” would not have hesitated to 


’betii’s promise. 


306 

say to them all and even more than she had 
said to Robin Goode, had they been on the spot; 
nor could they have silenced her either by scowls 
or threats, such was her indomitable will and 
courage when she felt that she had a duty to 
perform; but there was no one there except 
Robin Goode, and she hadn’t given the great 
rough fellow a chance to get in a word edgeways, 
although he had several times attempted to do so, 
for he had enough to say on his side of the ques- 
tion too. She had not come up there to argue 
with him, she told him, but to tell him the plain 
truth, and if he wouldn’t heed it, he’d have to 
take the consequences. ‘‘But I hope you will 
heed, Robin, for the sake of those youngsters of 
yours, and your hard-working, patient wife, 
whose health is not what it used to be, and for 
the sake of the little one sleeping out yonder on 
the hill-side, who died in my arms, Robin.” 

The veins swelled like cords in the man’s 
throat, a dark glow mounted to his face, and as 
he turned away, he dashed his rough, hairy hand 
across his eyes — for well he remembered his fair- 
haired little daisy, whom of them all he had 
loved best, and whose death had nearly broken 
his heart. Aunt ’Beth beckoned to Rodo, and 
in another moment they were driving home- 
wards. She thought she had said enough, and 
that it would be better to leave him while his 
feelings were softened, to think over what she 
had said. 


’bktii's promise. 


307 


“I don’t ‘know that I’ve done any good!” 
sighed the fearless little woman, after relating 
all that had passed to Mrs. Morley and ’Beth, as 
she sipped her tea; “but I’ve given him some- 
thing to think about. Oh dear, will things ever 
come straight? The world’s full of great wrongs 
that will never be righted until the judgment 
day!” 

“Dear Aunt ’Beth, if all tried as you do, there 
would be fewer wrongs and less suffering,” said 
Mrs. Morley, tenderly. 

’Beth, who had slipped away from the veranda 
where they had been taking tea, now came back 
with a bunch of spicy old-fashioned pinks, inter- 
spersed with sprigs of thyme, in her hand, which 
she offered Aunt ’ Beth, who held them to her 
face, inhaling their aroma with evident satisfac- 
tion. 

“How did you know I liked them, child?” 

“By seeing you every day, more or less, going 
about with a little posy of pinks and thyme in 
your hand, smelling them every few minutes, ’ ’ 
said ’Beth, with a loving smile at the dear old 
face. 

‘ ‘ They always refresh me, no matter how lan- 
guid I may be feeling; there’s a sentiment and a 
memory about these old-fashioned flowers that 
make them very dear to me, ’ ’ said Aunt ’ Beth. 
“But I think I’ll lie down a little whib^, although 
I don’t feel half as tired as I thought I would. 
To-morrow, you know, the hop-pickers begin., 


3o8 


’beth’s promise. 


and I want to have the Dulane>s and those two 
bright girls over to an afternoon tea. After- 
wards we’ll all go and see the pickers at work; 
it is really a very pretty sight. Are you going 
to church this evening?” 

‘‘For a little while,” Mrs. Morley answered. 
There was no regular afternoon service, but she 
loved to go and kneel before the Adorable Pres- 
ence, close by the feet of the holy Virgin 
Mother, who had suffered in her sacred and sin- 
less heart every wound and every pang endured 
by her Divine Son. There she rested her weary, 
aching heart; there she could weep in silence the 
tears that relieved and soothed, tears without sin 
or revolt against the divine will, such as the 
Master shed at the tomb of Lazarus. ’Beth gen- 
erally went over to meet her mother at the 
chapel door, sometimes going in to kneel and 
pray for the gift of faith, that she might entei 
into the one safe Fold which her heart now 
longed for. She had been reading steadily, and 
thinking deeply over some books that Father 
Thomas had given her — one especially, which 
proved, by Scriptural evidence alone, the Divine 
origin and dogmas of the Catholic Faith.* 
“There could be no mistake here,” she thought. 


* Bishop Becker, of Delaware, in his reply to Bp. Lee, of 
the Protestant Episcopal Church, is the anther of a small 
book of this kind, one of the strongest, most convincing 
and indisputable works in proof of all that the Churcl: 
teaches, that one could read. 


’bkth’s promise. 


309 


as she carefully compared it with her own Bible, 
finding it all exactly the same as in her mother’s 
Catholic version. She often stole away to spend 
a half hour in the chapel reciting the rosary, a 
devotion whose sacred mysteries had taken a 
strange hold on her heart from the moment she 
had comprehended their meaning. But these 
things belonged to ’Beth Morley’s hidden life; 
no one knew the grave, deep thoughts that exer- 
cised her mind, seeing her always so bright and 
full of life. The tabernacle of her pure heart 
was open only to heaven. 

Next morning’s sun rose fair and unclouded, 
and ’ Beth was awakened from her dreams by the 
sound of a slight cough in her room. She 
opened her eyes, and was for a moment or two 
on the border-land between sleeping and waking, 
when she saw Lodo standing near the foot of 
her bed, her great black eyes wild with sup- 
pressed delight. 

“Oh, mem, they’re here!” she exclaimed, a 
broad smile showing her pretty white teeth. 

“Who? what?” asked ’Beth, sitting up and 
pushing back her hair; “you don’t mean the 
‘strikers?’ ” 

‘ ‘ The hop-pickers, mem ; nearly a hundred — 
mostly young people — and there’ll be such fun! 
and only think, mem, I’m to go two whole 
days! You can hear them now, it you listen.” 

’Beth listened, and heard a distant and cheery 
hum of voices, with blithe sounds of laughter and 


310 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


scraps of song mingled together, so iu hainiony 
with the sunshiny brightness of the day, that she 
felt quite exhilarated. 

“It sounds awfully jolly! I should like to go 
with you, Lodo,” she said, laughing. 

“You’ll come, mem, after a while, to look at 
us. I must go now: I just ran in to tell you, 
mem.” 

“Thank you, you little elf; but stop a minute. 
Put on that sun-down in your hand: I want to 
see how you look in it,” said ’Beth. 

lyodo put her rough straw hat, with its red rib- 
bon streamers, on her head, which, with a bright 
blue calico skirt, a loose white sacque belted in 
by a white apron, and a string of large red beads 
around her throat, completed the attire, in which 
she looked very pretty. 

“Do they all dress in this manner?” asked 
’Beth, smiling her approval. 

“Mostly, mem.” 

“I’m sure they don’t look so, though. Now 
run away. You’ll have to tell my foitune, little 
gypsy, when I come over to-day,” said ’Beth. 

“I think I could, mem, if all signs are true,’' 
said Lodo, nodding her head as she went out. 

“What can she mean?” thought ’Beth, as the 
rose-hue deepened in her face; “how absurd the 
little witch is! No doubt she has built up quite 
a romance about me in her own mind.” 

When Mrs. Morley came in, she found ’Beth 
dressed, and after the “good-morning” embrace, 


beth’s promise. 




they went as usual to Mass. They caught a 
glimpse, here and there, of the hop-fields as the}' 
walked along, and heard distinctly the pleasant 
hum arising from them. 

“It reminds me of the Italian vintage,” said 
Mrs. Morley, sadly, remembering but too vividly 
with whom she had enjoyed one of the most pic- 
turesque sights of that sunny land. 

But presently all else was forgotton, for as 
they knelt in their pew. Father Hagner, robed 
for Mass, came in from the sacristy, attended by 
one of the young Dulaneys — ’Beth did not look 
to see which of them — and the Divine Sacrifice 
began. 

When they got back to “Ellerslie,” they found 
Aunt ’Beth quite elated. Robin Goode had paid 
her an early visit, and from his talk she thought 
he was giving in; but he promised nothing posi- 
tive, except to deliver a letter she had written tc 
Gibbs, Elder & Co., and ask to have a conversa- 
tion with them. 

Mrs. Morley was astonished as well as cheered 
to see how much good the stirring up of things 
was doing the dear old lady of “Ellerslie.” vShe 
was much better, undoubtedly; her prostrated 
nerve power was stimulated; it had received a 
new impetus, and she began to feel that she no 
longer “cumbered the earth,” like a dead tree. 
The fine weather, so necessary for the hop-gath- 
ering, the presence of so much life and stir, quite 
revived her; it was her festival season as well as 


312 


’beth’s promise. 


theirs — one which she had always enjoyed; and 
now, to add to her happiness, Mrs. Motley and 
’Beth, her only living kindred, were under her 
roof, ready to enjoy it with her. 

“Now, ’Beth,” she said after breakfast “every 
body’s afield except Mrs. Trott, so we’ll have a 
cold early dinner to-day. But there’s to be a 
high-tea for the Dulaneys, you know, and I shall 
want your help. ’ ’ 

“I am yours to command, my queen,” saiil 
’Beth, kneeling before the little woman’s chaii, 
her arms about her, her bright, beautiful face up- 
lifted to hers. “lean break eggs, I can whip 
them up to a froth that you can slice with a 
knife; I can sift flour, cream butter, and do such 
lots of things as would astonish you! — can’t I, 
mamma?” 

“Yes: I recommend her as assistant. Aunt 
’Beth,” said Mrs. Morley. 

“Oh, child, you are so like your father!” said 
Aunt’ Beth, with quivering lip. Then then' was 
a brief silence, broken presently, when she had 
quite recovered her voice, by her telling ’Beth 
that she wanted her to put fresh flowers in the 
vases, and whole wax candles in the candelabras 
and sconces. ‘ ‘ Cut the flowers at once, my child, 
before the sun begins to burn them, and they’ll 
keep fresh; then go at the candles; and when 
that’s done, I’ll tell you what next. There’ll be 
plenty of things to do to keep you busy for 
hours; meantime you and I, Anne, will wash 
dishes.” 


'beth's promise, 


3^3 

It was indeed a busy day throughout — a day, 
’Beth thought, to be marked with white, and 
remembered. The arrangements for the ‘ ‘ high- 
tea” were all perfect; the old silver, the quaint 
old china as thin as egg-shells, with flowers, and 
rare cut-glass that sparkled like diamonds; dain- 
ties of various sorts, and vine-wreathed fruits 
interspersed over the length and breadth of the 
solid mahogany table that was black with age, 
and so polished that every article on it was re- 
flected as in a mirror, made a fair spectacle in 
the antique dining-room, where the panelled 
walls were hung with time-shadowed portraits, 
and the windows, opening to the floor, were 
draped with Virginia creeper and clematis. 
’Beth was invited to preside, but preferred to 
serve, while her mother and Aunt ’Beth were to 
take the head and foot of the table. ’Beth was 
in an ecstasy of delight at the success of her ar- 
rangements, and at the approval they received. 
She flitted around, giving a last touch to this, oi • 
moving another thing to a more effective place, 
training a vine here, or placing av other half- 
blown rose there, until at last, finding nothing 
more to be done, she hurried away to make her 
toilette. 

Never had ’Beth Morley looked lovelier. Her 
simply made, close-fitting dress of black English 
crape, displayed the symmetry of her lithe, 
graceful figure. A cluster of half-opened white 
roses, at the throat, relieved the sombre hue of 


3H 


’betel’s promise. 


her toilette. Loose open sleeves revealed the 
beauty of hands and wrists as lovely as those of 
a Grecian statue, and her nut-brown curling hair, 
with its tinge of gold, crowned her as with a di- 
adem. Her mother had pinned a white rose 
among the loose curls at the back of her head, 
that was all; and her utter unconsciousness of 
her attractions but enhanced her loveliness. 

Presently the Dulaneys, with Elaine and Vio- 
let Marston, arrived, and were duly welcomed; 
hats and wraps were laid aside, and a great deal 
of gay chat among the young people ensued. 
But the afternoon tea was the first thing in order, 
and it was not long before they were summoned 
to it by the little lady of ‘‘Ellerslie” herself, 
who led the way to the dining-room, and directed 
each of her guests to their respective places. 
Mrs. Trott had brought in the steaming tea urn, 
the hot muffins, French rolls, broiled sweet- 
breads, and other dainties, and there was noth- 
ing more to be done but for every one to sit 
down and enjoy the hospitable feast so bounti- 
fully set before them. 

When ’Beth began to hand arotind the tea- 
cups, with a demure air, Bertie Dulaney pushed 
back his chair, and sprang up, exclaiming: 

“Oh, now, I declare that won’t do. Miss 
Morley! may I not wait too?” 

“Yes,” said Aunt ’Beth, “I’ll be glad if you 
will. There’s a salver on the sideboard. I 
only bargain that you do not break anything.” 


’beth’s promise:. 


3^5 


It made them all very merr> , and his effort to 
do everything in a waiter-like style, his dread of 
letting something slip or of upsetting hot tea on 
somebody’s back, were highly amusing. He was 
at once dubbed “Jeems,” and his father’s and 
brother’s calls upon him were incessant. Father 
Hagner, much to Aunt ’Beth’s regret, was not 
present; he had gone up to the iron works again 
to see what he could do. The two amateur 
waiters were complimented on their new accom- 
plishment after tea, and were then made to sit 
down, while Paul Dulaney and Elaine Marston 
served them in due form, and were kept busy by 
their unnecessary demands amidst much merry 
chatter and chaff. 

Out in the hop-fields, where the sun-rays 
slanted through the tops of the trees beyond, 
tingeing the delicate green of the vines still left 
clinging to the high poles around which they 
had grown and interlaced themselves, with a 
fleck of gold on every tremulous leaf, the scene 
was a gay and busy one. Men cut the vines 
close to the roots, after which the poles were 
drawn out of the earth, the vines still clinging 
around them, and borne away to the pavilions, 
where they were set leaning against the large 
wooden bins, into which the blossoms were 
tossed as fast as the deft fingers of the pickers 
could gather them. When filled, the bins were 
emptied into wagons, and the hop-flowers hauled 
away to be spread out in the drying-house. The 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


316 

Endless variety of color, and shades of color, in 
the cheap, pretty dresses of the women and 
young girls; their healthy, cheerful faces, as they 
sang or chattered over their work ; the merriment 
and rustic flirtations that went on in the pavil- 
ions where young m"en and girls worked together; 
the flitting here and there of bright spots of color 
as on some errand or other they ran among the 
green aisles formed by the vines yet uncut, to 
pavilions where friends or relatives were busy, 
made a gay spectacle, full of artistic tints and 
pretty grouping, all rendered brighter by the 
peculiarly clear atmosphere and the golden radi- 
ance of the westward sloping sun. The old lady 
of “Ellerslie’’ had a pleasant nod and a kind 
word for her busy harvesters, as she, with Mrs. 
Morley and her guests, walked slowly here and 
there over the held, observing and enjoying that 
which was novel and pleasant to some of the 
party, while she pointed out and explained 
everything that seemed to interest them. The 
young people went off together, and somehow, 
after a little while, ’Beth found herself alone 
with Bertie Dulaney, the others having lost 
themselves among the hops. She immediately 
proposed going in search of them, which he 
agreed to, leading her all the time in a direction 
opposite to that in which he had last seen them; 
nor did they see each other again until, slowly 
sauntering home after sunset through the now 
quiet and deserted hop-fields, he exclaimed: 


’beth’s promise. 


317 

“They have got back before us, Miss Morley! 
How on earth did we miss them? They are sit- 
ting there on the veranda, as composedly as if we 
had not been lost. Let us be very dignified with 
them. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps they’ll think they are the ones to put 
on injured airs,” said ’Beth, laughing, and won- 
dering what Elaine Marston would think of her 
lover’s desertion. “We’ll begin, though, and 
tell them we’ ve been looking for them ever since 
they gave us the slip.” 

“I’m only afraid they’ll see at once that I am 
shamming, and that instead of reproaching them, 
I am much more inclined to thank them for the 
very happiest hour of my life, ’ ’ answered Bertie 
Dulaney, in a low voice, as he looked down into 
the fair, sweet face uplifted towards his. 

A delicate rose tint overspread ’Beth’s face, 
that mysterious sign by which heart answers 
heart plainer than words can tell, and she awoke 
to the half consciousness of a new and indefinable 
sentiment which startled her — for was not this 
man, who had awakened it, betrothed to Elaine 
Marston? What, then, did he mean by seeming 
to prefer her companionship to that of Elaine 
whenever they were all together? Why did he 
say so many things to her whenever an oppor- 
tunity offered, which might mean a great deal or 
nothing? These thoughts rushed through ’Beth 
Morley’ s mind, and aroused her pride and a 
sense of wliat was due to herself. “If he thinks 


’betii’s promise. 


318 

he can amuse himself by carrying on a flirtation 
with me under the very eyes of the girl he’s en- 
gaged to, it is time he should begin to find out 
his mistake,” she thought, as, shaking off her 
momentary embarrassment, she said, laughingly: 

‘ ‘ I shall make them ashamed of themselves. ’ ’ 

But when reproached, they all declared that, 
they had looked everywhere for them, and not 
seeing a trace of them, had hurried home, ex- 
pecting to find that they had returned. 

“Yes!” said Violet, her red lips pouting, while 
dimples lurked in her cheeks, betraying how 
much more she was disposed to laugh than to 
scold: “I am the one who has been the most 
ill-treated and neglected; for do you know, ’Beth 
— you told me to call you so — that while I 
stopped to pick off a few hops with Lodo, those 
two, Paul and Elaine, deliberately walked away! 
I didn’t care, though, for I dote on Lodo, and I 
did really enjoy picking hops. She said I nipped 
them off as fast as the best of pickers, and as a 
reward for my usefulness, I’m invited to the 
dance they’re going to have in the barn to- 
night.” 

“Indeed, Miss Morley, I told her twice that 
we were going,” said Elaine to Aunt ’Beth, 
“and thought she had started with us, until I 
looked round and missed her; then we went back, 
but every one was gone. Is not that so?” she 
said, appealing to Paul Dulaney. 

“It happened exactly so; but I beg your par- 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


319 


don, Violet — I really thought you weie coming,” 
he replied. 

” Trotting on behind like Mrs. Bacon’s poodle! 
No, I thank you! I have lived to learn that 
three is an awkward number,” said Violet, toss- 
ing her pretty head. 

’Beth glanced at Elaine, whose eyes had so 
happy a light in them, and whose lips wore so 
joyous a smile, that she wondered if Violet could 
possibly mean that she had been carrying on a 
flirtation with Paul Dulaney, and intended to 
punish them both by giving a hint of it to his 
brother, to whom she was engaged? She thought 
things might grow disagreeable if this went on, 
and, wishing to have a few minutes to herself to 
try and shake off the disagreeable impressions 
that had chilled and made her uncomfortable, 
she proposed that they should have some music, 
and went into the music-room to light the can- 
dles, telling them she would call them when she 
had finished, and refusing their pleasantly- 
offered assistance. As she struck a match, she 
heard the quick scrape of another, and saw that 
Bertie Dulaney had followed her — despite her 
wishes — to help to light up. She could not be 
rude enough to tell him he should not, nor did 
she feel that it would be quite delicate to put on 
an air of resentment, for which she would be un- 
able to give an explanation should one be asked. 
Then she determined to show a simple indiffer^ 
ence, and make no change in her manner tc^ 
wards him, now at least. 


320 


bkth’s promise. 


“How kind you are! I was just wondering if 
I could reach the candles in that sconce without 
climbing on a chair. I believe it is just within 
reach of your arm, Mr. Dulaney ; thank you very 
much,” she said, flitting about lighting the long 
wax candles in candelabras^ on brackets, in the 
sconces and upon the piano, until the beautiful 
old room was flooded with a white mellow radi- 
ance. ■ “Now you may open the piano, while I 
uncover the harp.” Running her long, pretty 
fingers over the strings, she added: “Will you 
please tell them to come in?” 

“In a moment. Miss Morley,” he said, stand- 
ing just before her; “did I not hear something 
said about going to see a dance in the barn?” 

“Yes: the girls were speaking of it.” 

“May I be your escort?” 

“I do not think of going, Mr. Dulaney. I 
think that sort of gayety and my dress are not 
in harmony, ’ ’ she said, coldly. 

“Pardon me! I see,” he answered, quickly. 

“But do not refer to it, please, lest my not 
going should interfere in some way with their 
enjoyment. You will all enjoy the fun, I’m 
sure, for these country people dance^ I hear, and 
take steps, and throw their heart into their heels 
with prodigious antics.” 

“ I shall take no pleasure in it, if you are not 
there. As it is, may I stay here until they get 
back ? I’m awfully tired. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Dulaney,” said ’Beth 


’beth’s promise. 


321 


with something of haiiteur in her expression, as 
she thought of Elaine. ‘‘Will you, or shall I, 
tell the girls and your brother that everything is 
ready ? ’ ’ 

He bowed and went out, without another word, 
to do her bidding, while she remained standing 
where he had left her, with a shadow more of 
perplexity than anger on her countenance. “I 
have heard and read of men-flirts, ’ ’ she thought, 
indignantly; “but if Mr. Dulaney chooses to 
forget that he’s an engaged man, and expects to 
amuse himself, it shall not be at my expense. I 
am so disappointed in him!” 

The young people came in laughing and chat- 
ting; then there was a flutter over the music 
books, and a little playful badinage about the 
selections to be made, until finally, all being 
ready, sweet sounds filled the room and floated 
out, entrancing the ear and heart of the party on 
the veranda. Harp and piano united in a con- 
cert of rare harmonies, and the round, full- voiced 
notes of alto and high clear soprano blended in 
wonderful passages of melody — now brilliant, 
now tender, now gay, now sad — and the moments 
slipped by, winged with music to which an 
angel might have paused to listen. Both Elaine 
and Violet had voices of rare sweetness, flexi- 
bility and compass, w^hich had been cultivated 
by the most skilful teachers, but never had they 
sung with such expression and effect as to-night, 
while their sweet, unaffected readiness to oblige. 

II 


322 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


and their genuine enjoyment in having given so 
much pleasure, greatly enhanced the delicious 
treat 

But it was time for those who were going, to 
start for the barn, where the hop-pickers were 
holding their revel. Mr. Dulaney, Elaine, Vio- 
let, and Paul went, the girls declaring that they 
meant to dance, if they were invited by the rus- 
tic beaux, and giving permission to the two gen- 
tlemen to select partners from among the belles 
of the occasion. Bertie Dulaney told them he 
‘‘would come presently,” and Elaine, appar- 
ently well satisfied, went with Paul, and Violet 
with Mr. Dulaney. It was growing a little chill, 
and Aunt ’Beth proposed going into the music- 
room, to which they readily agreed, and found 
the change very agreeable — particularly Mrs. 
Dulaney, who had already felt one or two 
twinges of neuralgia, the only ill that her 
flesh seemed heir to. ’Beth drew a low tabott- 
ret close to her mother, and sat leaning upon 
her knee, almost clinging to her, as if for 
safety, for there had come into her heart a 
strange feeling of unrest and weariness. Aunt 
’Beth, well pleased with the brave, hand- 
some young fellow who had been so good to 
’Beth, made Bertie Dulaney come to her sofa, 
and had he been vain or conceited, he would 
have been made to feel himself quite a heio by 
all the kind, pleasant things she said to him; 
his mother listening, and beaming with fond 
pride, while he, flushing and laughing, declared^ 


’bkth’s promise. 


323 


‘‘Any other fellow would have done the same. 
Really now, Miss Morley, you are giving me more 
praise than I deserve; it was all accidental, you 
know; but Pm very glad I happened to be of ser- 
vice.” After a little while he got away from 
the sofa, and went across the room to join Mrs. 
Morley and ’Beth, and was soon engaged in a 
pleasant conversation with the former, in which 
the girl took no part except when addressed, an- 
swering courteously, but with an air of reserve 
which was perfectly incomprehensible to him. 
Had he offended her? What had he said or 
done? Why was she so strangely changed to- 
wards him? He could not imagine. Hurt, and 
feeling a little nettled by what he considered a 
caprice, he got up, saying he believed he would 
go and look at the dancers; then bowed himself 
out and went away, his head bared to the cool 
night air as he sauntered through the shubbery, 
wondering if it were indeed true that all women 
were fickle and capricious, as he had often heard, 
and if it could be that this one, on whose purity 
and truth he would have been willing to stake his 
life, was of that sort. After going a short distance, 
he heard the voices of the party he was going to 
meet, laughing and talking merrily, advancing 
towards him; but he was in no mood to join 
them, and making a quick turn, he crossed the 
field, and taking the path which led to the gate 
— now never closed — between “Ellerslie” and 
his home, he was soon on the other side. As he 


324 


’bkth’s promise. 


was passing the chapel, a sudden impulse seized 
him. It was his turn to serve Mass the next 
morning, and he had the door-key in his pocket. 
‘‘This sort of thing won’t do, losing my head 
and getting into a fever over nothing; I’ll go in 
here a little while to say my beads and cool off;” 
and obeying the good impulse, he unlocked the 
chapel door and went in. The sanctuary lamp 
cast a faint glimmer of light over the altar and 
shrine of Our Lady; all else was in shadow; here 
was the August Presence which whispers to the 
tempest- tossed passions of life; “So far shall ye 
come, and no farther;” and here was the silence 
in which the whispers of the soul could best be 
heard. Kneeling down reverently, his rosary in 
hand, the brave, sweet nature of Bertie Dulaney, 
which had been so suddenly stirred into a passion 
of resentment and pain, yielded to the holy in- 
fluences of the place, and he went forth more 
calm than when he entered. 

When his mother and the rest of them got 
home from “Ellerslie,” the servant told them, 
when they inquired if he had come, that he had 
been in some little time, and had gone imme- 
diately to his room. 

The “Ellerslie” hops were all gathered into 
the drying house, and the crowds of merry pick- 
ers had moved on to “fresh fields and pastures 
new,” leaving Aunt ’Beth time to attend to 
other things in which she was growing more and 
more interested. These were the “strike,” and 


’bkth’s promise. 


3^5 


the disposition of the strikers, and the misery 
that impended over them if they continued 
stubborn. vShe made several expeditions with 
Father Hagner among the hills, to see some of 
the rough men engaged in the trouble, to talk 
over and argue the case with them. They felt a 
great respect for the brave little woman who 
showed no fear of them, and whose only object 
in seeking them in their poor homes was their 
own good — they were sure of that, however 
much her ideas and their own might differ. 
They gave welcome also to the gentle young 
priest, and listened to all he had to say, without, 
however, giving way in the least to his good 
counsels; ‘Tor,” said they, “his business and 
ours are two different matters; our business is to 
grub for the body, his is to see after the soul; 
and it’s plain as day, if the bread is taken from 
us, the soul and body won’t hold together — so 
nothing’s left for us but to fight our own battle.” 
The good priest who had been engaged in mis- 
sionary work among them for many years, had 
hastened there as soon as ever he knew how mat- 
ters stood, and after first conferring with Gibbs, 
Elder & Co., and finding that their demands 
were fully justified by the emergencies of the 
hour, he lost no time in going among his people, 
exhorting, arguing and expostulating with them 
day and night; and there began to appear a faint 
hope that things would take a more favorable 
turn, as the unreasonableness of the stand they 


’beth’s promise. 


326 

had taken was made more apparent to their un- 
derstanding. Besides, a long, bitter winter was 
at hand, and what then, if they held out? This 
latter consideration was doing its work in their 
own minds, although no one had yet ventured to 
speak it out It would have seemed too much 
like “giving in.” 

“After the “high- tea” at “Ellerslie” on the 
evening described, ’Beth had kept within doors 
for a day or so, practising, reading, sewing a lit- 
tle for the “ Dorcas-basket, ” and spending all 
the intervening time with her mother. The 
young people at “ Tracy-Holme ” were having 
riding and boating parties, or some merry expe- 
dition or other, every day, but to their great dis- 
appointment, ’Beth excused herself from joining 
them, for reasons which seemed good to herself — 
reasons dictated by honor as well as a regard for 
her own peace of mind. They were all so kind 
and pleasant, that she was glad to have a tangible 
excuse for declining to go once or twice, in the 
fact that Aunt ’Beth and Father Hagner were off 
together on their well-meant expeditions, and her 
mother would be left quite alone. One morn- 
ing, when after vainly entreating her to go on a 
fishing-party to the lake, the Marstons hastened 
away, that the others might not be kept waiting, 
’Betli, feeling that they had not taken her re- 
fusal to go very kindly, and dissatisfied with her- 
self, put on her hat, and taking up a book she 
liad been reading, determined to go and spend 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


327 


an hour or two in the ‘‘glen.” Everything was 
lovely; the place itself was a poem, with its great 
whispering trees, the sun-rays piercing the green 
shadows here and there, the clear torrent dash- 
ing over the rocks with a sound full of music 
and refreshment, birds flitting from tree to tree 
with outbursts of fitful song, and the shy chip- 
munks running in and out of their hiding-places, 
their bright eyes peering about with curious 
glances, then suddenly scampering up the trees 
to saw off with their nimble teeth a few more 
hickory-nuts for their winter store. It was no 
use, ’Beth thought, to attempt to read dry print, 
with all this living movement of beauty and 
brightness around her; and she laid her book 
down on the moss, and with her hands folded 
idly on her lap, fell to dreaming waking dreams, 
into which a certain sadness entered. She had 
been disappointed in Bertie Dulaney, whom she 
had thought almost as perfect and brave as Ro- 
land; he had proved himself a trifler, and, ac- 
cording to her views, unprincipled; and she felt, 
too, the disrespect shown to herself in having 
made her the object of his attentions, and 
breathed tender words to her, when he was en- 
gaged to be married to Elaine Marston. While 
she sat there thinking how bitter a thing it was 
to be disappointed in a character which had 
seemed to be possessed of every virtue, and de- 
termining to guard against credulity in future, 
she heard footsteps on last year’s leaves, and 


328 


’bkth’s promise. 


turning her head, saw Bertie Dulaney standing 
within a few feet of her. 

“I hope that I have not startled you, Miss 
Morley,’’ he said, lifting his hat. 

“No — only surprised me. I thought you were 
out on the lake with the others.” 

“No: I felt no interest in going. In fact, 
Miss Morley, I staid at home hoping to see you.” 

“A poor exchange, Mr. Dulaney,” she an- 
swered coldly, as she rose up. 

“Not so. I do not know how I have offended 
you; and I wanted to hear from your own lips, 
how and when I was so unfortunate,” he said, 
in grave, gentle tones. 

“You have not offended me, Mr. Dulaney,” 
she answered, looking down. How could she 
tell him what was in her mind ? Every delicate 
womanly instinct forbade it. She felt the awk- 
wardness of her position, which she could nei- 
ther explain nor ignore. 

“I am glad to hear that, and hope we shall be 
friends again,” he said; “but I shall not think so 
if you go away as soon as I come.” 

“I left mamma quite alone, and I have been 
here some time already,” she said, looking into 
his face for the first time, and noting its grave 
lines and the puzzled expression in his eyes. 
Then she hastened to add: “I suppose you will 
drive down to the lake shore presently to meet 
the girls?” 

“No: there’s no necessity for me to do sa 


’bkth’s promise. 


329 

They are paired oflf, so that I should only be in 
the way.” 

‘4 do not understand,” said ’Beth. “Who 
went?” 

“My father and Violet in one boat; Elaine and 
Paul in mine — the one you floated away in, you 
know. ’ ’ 

“Who rows?” she asked, wishing he had not 
referred to her adventure. 

“They have men to row, while they, it is sup- 
posed, will catch fish; but there will be few or 
none caught, at least in one boat.” 

“Why?” she asked, for want of something 
better to say. 

“Lovers are never very successful anglers I 
fancy — I mean my brother Paul and Elaine; you 
know they are engaged?” 

“No, I did not know it. I thought he was 
engaged to Violet,” said ’Beth, feeling how 
utterly she had misjudged him; her heart, at the 
same time, relieved of a great weight. 

“They have been engaged ever since they left 
school, and are to be married in December. As 
to Violet, she’s fancy free, and he’ll be a smart 
fellow who captures her, she’s such a little flirt. 
She declares that she intends to amuse herself, 
for a year or two, in flirting to her heart’s con- 
tent, before she settles down.” 

“They are very lovely girls, Elaine espe- 
cially,” said Beth, from whose heart the last 
cloud had drifted. She had found her Roland 
again. 


330 


’beth’s promise. 


‘ ‘ And my brother, Miss Morley, is one oi the 
best and noblest fellows living,” he said, warmly. 

Then they fell to talking of other things, wan- 
dering down the glen together, instead of going 
back to the house; and presently they sat down 
on a ledge of rock to watch the fantastic dance 
of the brook, as it foamed along through the 
great ferns and blue flags that grew in wild 
luxuriance along its rugged edges; and there he 
told her all that he had been longing to say since 
the day he first saw her drifting so helplessly 
away on the lake. 

It was a new tale to ’Beth, and had taken her 
so by surprise that she could not answer him; 
but he saw that she was not offended, and when 
he tirged her to give him at least a hope that 
she would some day accept him, she only said: 

You must let me think; I cannot decide all at 
once, you know.” Her voice was not steady, 
and when he asked her if he might continue to 
visit her on the same old friendly terms while he 
awaited her decision, she told him ‘‘Yes,” and 
did not withdraw her hand which he had taken 
to help her to rise, and which he would have 
liked to hold, but presently she gently withdrew 
it, and began to talk of indifferent matters. 

A strange, quiet sense of happiness had stolen 
into Beth’s heart. Nature was sweetly unfold- 
ing there that old yet ever new mystery by which 
soul is attracted to soul, finding their counter- 
part through a pure and exalted sentiment. She 


’beth’s promise. 


331 


did not speak of what had passed to her mother, 
she wanted to be quite sure of herself first; now 
she was only conscious of a serene contentment 
in Bertie Dulaney’s presence, and a feeling of 
pride in having won his love. ’Beth did not 
know these signs for all that they meant, or she 
need not have waited ‘‘to think” before she 
could answer him. As her love of the beautiful 
in nature always winged her thoughts heaven- 
ward, so now this pure new-born sentiment 
seemed to draw her by an irresistible force to the 
feet of the sweet Virgin of virgins. To kneel 
alone in the silent chapel, when only the shadows 
of the leaves outside were dancing on the wall — 
when only the last golden tints of the setting sun 
vied with the sanctuary lamp in shedding a fairer 
radiance around the holy place — when only the 
last song of the birds from their leafy covert 
broke the silence — to kneel there and commend 
herself to her care, to ask her guidance in this 
new and bewildering phase of her life, and say 
some decades of her rosary, seemed to ’Beth the 
natural outgrowth of the strange happiness that 
brooded in her heart. 

Well for her, indeed, that this devotion to the 
Blessed and Immaculate Virgin had sprung up 
in her soul, almost at the moment she first be- 
came acquainted with it! Was it a grace born of 
that consecration of her to Mary by her mother 
at her birth? Has it ever been known that one 
so placed under our Blessed Lady’s protection 


333 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


was abandoned? Does she not keep watch over 
them with jealous eye, to deliver them out of the 
snares and pitfalls which the great adversary, and 
the world, seek to weave around them? Well 
was it for ’Beth that she had this holy refuge to 
fly to, when the dark days grew nigh! 


^beth’s promise. 


333 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IF SHE HAD ONEY KNOWN ! 

The days sped brightly and swiftly for ’Beth 
Morley; every moment seemed rounded with a 
full, quiet happiness, which she sought neither 
to analyze nor define. She asked no questions 
of the future; she was satisfied to know in her 
veiy heart that Bertie Dulaney loved her, and 
was ever shyly conscious that the thought of him 
made a strange, tender vibration in it of chords 
never before awakened, although the words were 
still unspoken that would have made him ‘ ‘ the 
happiest fellow on earth. ’ ’ What this new mys- 
tery was, she did not ask herself. The young 
people at “ Tracy-Holme ” and ’Beth were of- 
tener together now, and several times she had 
joined -their excursions; but whether riding or 
walking, whether roving through the glen or 
gypsying in the woods, whether at “ Ellerslie” 
or at “ Tracy-Holme, ” Bertie Dulaney always 
managed to be by her side; and while he made 
himself agreeable to others of the party, he was 
watchful of her every movement. To put his hand 
upon her bridle rein if they were riding, to guide 
her hDrse away from the rough or dangerous 
places of the road; to press back, heedless of his 


334 


’bktii’s promise. 


own liuit, the wide, thorny vines that obstructed 
her path when they were all in the woods or in 
the glen; to find her music for her in the even- 
ing, or turn over the leaves when she was at the 
harp or piano; to move her chair out of range 
of the night breeze as it drifted in through the 
open windows, and a thousand other little unob- 
trusive services, gave unmistakable evidence of 
how his mind was occupied and filled with the 
thought of her. Every morning found him at 
‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ on some pretence or other — either a 
message from the girls, or a book, or a rare flower 
from his mother’s conservatory, which he always 
gave ’Beth with her love; or a piece of new 
music which he had ordered from the city, think- 
ing she “would like it,” and try it for him. It 
looked very much as if he were trying to throw 
dust in the eyes of Mrs. Morley and Aunt ’Beth; 
but nothing was farther from his thoughts than 
an intention to cover up and make a secret of his 
love; he only thought it would be better so to 
act until ’Beth gave him the right — by accepting 
him — to speak out and declare that she, of all 
the world, was his choice. 

One morning. Aunt ’Beth with her knitting, 
and Mrs. Morley with some light needle- work in 
hand, were together in the summer sitting-room, 
talking over the latest news of the “strike,” 
about which the heart of the dear old lady of 
‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ con tinned to be much troubled. She 
had just said: “ I hear that the amount of wages 


’beth’s promise. 


335 


the workmen have lost by the strike is over 
twenty thousand dollars! Only think, fifteen 
hundred men, all told, literally without bread 
and without work, and winter so near!’’ 

Just at this moment, ’Beth and Bertie Dulaney 
ran in, both radiant and evidently full of some 
new plan. He had met her in the grounds as he 
was on his way to invite her to go with him to 
the lake for an hour’s row. 

‘‘There’s nothing I should like better this per- 
fect day, but — what a horrid little word that is! 
I must hear first what mamma and Aunt ’Beth 
have to say about it,” she said, when he told 
her what he had come for, her face beaming with 
pleasure at the very thought of a row. 

Bertie Dulaney made his bow, said pleasant 
things to the two ladies, then preferred his re- 
quest, and, as he had hoped, they interposed no 
objection to ’Beth’s going. 

“Pull the bell beside you, Mr. Dulaney; we’ll 
have the phaeton prepared, for of course you 
can’t walk to the lake,” said Aunt ’Beth, with 
a little nod that made her white curls dance. 

“Oh no, no. Miss Morley! — my own trap is 
ready; I only ran over to see if Miss ’Beth would 
like to go; then I meant to drive round,” he ex- 
claimed. 

“If you don’t mind, we’ll go in the phaeton,” 
said ’Beth; “otherwise we can walk.” 

“I am delighted! I have been fairly pining 
for a drive in it. Will you let me hold the rib- 
bons?” 


’beth’s promise. 


336 

“Oh, no! Peg does not like strangeis, and 
there’s no telling what he might do if you at- 
tempted to drive,” said ’Beth, laughing. 

‘ ‘ Of course you know all about boating, Mr. 
Dulaney?” said Mrs. Morley. 

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Morley; I am more at 
home in a boat than anywhere else, I assure you. 
I can pull an oar very steadily,” he answered. 

“So can I, mamma, you know; and if I see 
he’s not skilful. I’ll take the oars from him and 
give him the tiller-ropes; so don’t be uneasy, 
dearest,” said ’Beth, gayly. How bright and 
happy she looked, and with what proud, loving 
eyes he regarded her, almost forgetful that others 
might be observing him! In a few minutes the 
wheels of the phaeton were heard on the gravel, 
and a prolonged whinny from Peg announced 
that he was ready and waiting for them. 

“The sun gets very hot towards noon, Mr. 
Dulaney. You’ll get back in time to avoid it?” 

“Oh yes, indeed, Mrs. Morley! — have no fear.” 

“And don’t let ’Beth row; it will overheat 
her,” she added. 

“She shall not touch an oar, now that I have 
your orders, Mrs. Morley,” he replied, bowing 
himself out, looking so full of life and happi- 
ness, and withal so handsome, that Aunt ’Beth 
remarked, “I think, Anne, that is as fine a 
young fellow as I have seen for many a long day. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morley, “he is very attract- 
ive. His greatest charm is his genuine and un- 


^beth’s promise. 337 

affected manner. But better than all, he is a 
devout Catholic Christian.” 

He has a good safeguard if he is that,” said 
Aunt ’Beth, looking thoughtfully out at. the 
flicker of sunshine and shadow among vines that 
hung trailing over the windows. ‘‘But it has 
struck me, Anne, that he is very much taken 
with ’Beth; and since I have got over some of 
my nonsensical ideas about new people, I think 
it would be a very suitable thing.” 

“I have observed it, too; but I think, perhaps, 
that having been thrown together in the country 
liere, they only enjoy each other’s society, as 
most young people who have the same tastes do, 
without there being anything particular in it. I 
hope — I hope to keep ’ Beth a few years longer, ’ ’ 
said Mrs. Morley, gravely. 

“ We must not be selfish, Anne. We must re- 
member that the young have their lives to live 
out, even as we have done before them. Human 
nature is human nature; it is like the seasons — 
the blossoming of trees and the falling of the 
leaves, or the rising and setting of sun, moon 
and stars; it has its laws even as they have, and 
we cannot control them.” 

“You are right, dear Aunt ’Beth. I can only 
commend my child to the care of our dear Lord 
and His Blessed Mother; and although it will be 
a great trial to me when she decides to marry, I 
shall not refuse to sacrifice whatever it mav cost 
me to secure her happiness. ’ ’ 


338 


’bkth’s promise. 


“That’s right, my dear. ‘She’s ower young 
to marry yet,’ the old song goes, and we must 
not begin to borrow trouble until we see ‘.signs 
and portents. ’ But do you know that I am very 
much in love?” said Aunt ’Beth, her eyes twink- 
ling. 

“Aunt ’Beth, what can you mean?” 

“I’ll tell you; it’s with your young priest over 
yonder,” laughed Aunt ’Beth, her white curls 
vibrating. “You know I’ve been driving up 
and down with him to see some of the strikers 
that I know, and have watched him and listened 
to him in their poor abodes, until my old eyes 
have run over at his earnestness, his compassion, 
his pleadings and patient reasoning with them, 
despite their oftentimes rude and threatening be- 
havior, and I have thought that surely the Mas- 
ter Himself was there in his person.” 

“As He was,” murmured Mrs. Morley. 

“Do you know, he would give his very life to 
avert the misery, and suffering, and possible 
crime, that these men are bringing upon them- 
selves! I heard him tell them so, and I saw one 
lift his huge fist to give him a blow that would 
have killed him, ‘because,’ the ruffian remarked, 
that ‘he wanted them to put their necks under the 
heels of the rich, and they would hear no more 
of his hypocritical talk. ’ He swore, and he used 
such language that my blood ran cold; but 
Father Hagner stood waiting until his rage had 
expended itself, then went on and finished what 


’beth’s promise. 


339 


he had begun to say. And he has told me some 
things about his belief, too, that have surprised 
me, ’ ’ said Aunt ’ Beth. ‘ ‘ That is the sort of a 
pastor that I believe in, a man who thinks only 
of the good of his people, and not of his own 
comfort and profit and convenience — one who, 
like Christ, is ready to die that others may live 
and be saved. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There are thousands like him in the Catholic 
priesthood,” said Mrs. Morley. 

‘ ‘ There are some, doubtless. That Irish priest 
up at the iron works is another of that sort. I 
have seen these, two since the strike putting self 
entirely aside for some higher motive than ordi- 
nary; and seeing, you know, my child, is believ- 
ing.” 

‘‘Their motive, dear Aunt ’Beth, is not in- 
spired by nature, but by the pure love of God, 
and in obedience to the spirit of their holy 
Faith,” said Mrs. Morley, gently. 

Aunt ’ Beth dropped her hands on her lap, and 
fixed her eyes on Mrs. Morley’ s face as if some- 
thing had suddenly dawned upon her mind urg- 
ing her to speak, but she only said : “It must be 
a good faith that lifts man above the littleness 
and the grovelling weaknesses of nature. But 
there are good people in all sects, I believe ’ ’ 

Lodo came in for some directions about a piece 
of work she had in hand, interrupting the con- 
versation, which was not resumed after she had 
heard about the seams and fells and gores that 


340 


’bkth’s promise. 


had been puzzling her, and gone back to the 
housekeeper’s room. Aunt ’Beth thought an 
agreeable book would be a pleasant change, and 
because she knew that it would interest and en- 
tertain Mrs. Morley, she asked her to read a few 
pages aloud from an old volume she had hunted 
up on the library shelves that morning, the 
‘‘Memoirs of the Duchess d’Abrantes,” who was 
the wife of Junot, one of Napoleon’s brave gen- 
erals; and she was not disappointed, for in no 
book that has been written of those times have 
there ever been given such graphic details of the 
strange and wonderful events of the first Empire, 
including all from the revolution to St. Helena. 

We will follow ’Beth and Bertie Dulaney to 
the lake. It is not an idle love story we are 
writing, but one of as severe a trial and suffering 
as can enter the life of a pure, true-hearted wo- 
man. But to appreciate it, ’Beth’s promise, 
made to her mother when she was “fancy free,” 
untried, and strong in power of will, must be re- 
membered. ’Beth had made up her mind that 
very morning, that the next time Bertie Dulaney 
should plead for a favorable answer to his suit, 
she would frankly give it; for it had become 
very clear to her own heart that she returned his 
preference, and to keep him in suspense, she 
thought, would be like the merest coquetry and 
trifling on her part, and altogether unworthy of 
her. Daily she had taken the affair to the 
Blessed Virgin, and asked her safe guidance; 


’bkth’s promise. 


34 ^ 


slie had viewed it in every aspect, and could see 
no reason why it should not terminate happily. 
She did not want to marry for a year or two; she 
could not leave her mother while her heart was 
so sole with the grief of her loss; but she felt 
they would be very happy engaged, and sure of 
each other’s love. Then there was no objection 
that could be urged against him by either her 
mother or Aunt ’Beth. He was a good Catholic, 
a civilian; he had fine qualities of mind and 
heart, and they both admired and had the most 
friendly feelings toward him, and Aunt ’Beth 
had got over her foolish old-world notions about 
new people. Then ’Beth thought of an old 
verse she had once read, which had made so 
great an impression upon her mind, that she had 
long ago formed her ideal from it. Again and 
again, she whispered: 

“What is noble? To inherit 
Wealth, or fame, or high degree ? 

There must be some other merit 
Higher yet than these, for me. 

Something nobler far must enter 
Into life’s majestic span. 

Something to create and centre 
True nobility in man.” 

And she had found her ideal in Bertie Dulaney, 
her knight sans peter ^ sans reproche,'^'* 

But while driving to the lake, the subject so 
near both their hearts was not approached. ’ Beth 
felt a little conscious, and was more quiet than 
usual; but he was so happy to have her all to 


342 


’bhth’s promise. 


himself that he talked of a thousand pleasant 
things, thinking only of the bright present — foi 
slie had not repulsed him, and he was full of 
hope. His servant was on the sands waiting 
with the oars, which were kept with fishing 
tackle and other things in a boat-house a short 
distance off; he had already laid a plank from 
the shore to the boat, and, giving up the oars, he 
took the phaeton and Peg in charge, until they 
should come back. ’Beth waited only long 
enough to give the horse a treat of sugar, and 
hear his grateful whinny, then giving her hand 
to Bertie Dulaney, who had stood by watching 
her, she ran over the sands with him, and sprang 
into the boat; in another moment they had pushed 
off, he rowing, she holding the tiller- ropes. How 
bright and fair it all seemed to them, not even 
the shadow of a cloud drifting by! 

“This is really lovely,” she said, in merry 
tones, “and I believe you do know how to row.” 

“I shall always know how to row, if you are 
at the helm,” he said, regarding her fondly. 

“I might run you upon a reef,” she answered. 

“I’m quite willing to risk it.” 

‘ ‘ Did you ever see anything so beautiful ? The 
deep blue of the sky and the calm deep blue of 
the water make it seem as if we were floating in 
the air. Won’t you stop rowing a moment and 
just let us float?” 

“Gladly,” he answered, resting on his oars; 
“this is where I found you, you know, and just 


'bkth’s promise. 


343 


here I want you to tell me something that I wish 
above all things in life to hear, and upon which 
my future very much depends.” He was very 
grave, *and was speaking from his heart. ‘ ‘ I need 
not tell you again that I love you,” he resumed, 
‘^you know that. Now I want to know from 
your own pure, honest heart if you think you 
can ever care enough for me to be my wife?” 

’Beth was trailing her hand in the water, lean- 
ing a little over the side of the boat, her large 
hat shading her face, except her purely-moulded 
chin and part of the cheek that was towards 
him, into which a faint, delicate glow had stolen. 
Her eyes were fixed upon the sun-lighted ripples, 
as if expecting an answer from the blue depths; 
for now that the decisive moment had come, and 
her heart was stirred by its own happiness, she 
hesitated, she had not courage to put into words 
what it urged her to say. She loved him with a 
pure womanly love, and he was worthy of all 
that he asked for; yet how could she break 
through her maidenly reserve to tell him so? 

“Won’t you tell me?” he asked; “you know 
I may have to go away, perhaps to-night or to- 
morrow. I am expecting orders every day.” 

“Orders! — what do you mean?” said ’Beth, 
lifting her head, and looking at him with a 
startled look in her eyes. 

“Orders to join my ship. I belong to the 
Navy, 3'ou know?” 

“No, I did not know it,” she faltered, her 


344 


’BETH'S PROMISE. 


voice tremulous and faint, her face very white, 
the color gone even from her lips, while her 
heart felt as if it had suddenly turned to ice. 

‘‘But I will not go: I will ask for longer leave. 
’Beth, darling, are you ill? Forgive me if I 
have said anything to pain you.” 

“ It is only a slight faintness, ’ ’ she said, gently. 
“I think, if you please, I should like to go back. 
I am sorry, so very sorry that I cannot answer 
you as you wish. Oh, how I wish we had never 
met! ” — and without being conscious of what she 
was doing, she wrung her hands, her face white 
with a strange, hopeless sorrow. It had been so 
sudden, this death-blow to her bright, sweet 
dreams. But her promise to her mother, which 
she had called God to witness, must be kept. 
Oh, if she had only known! 

“But why? why?” he urged. “If you care 
in the least for me. I’ll wait — wait patiently, 
gladly, wait as long as you wish.” 

“It can never be,” she faltered. “There is 
a reason I cannot explain. You must not ask 
me.” 

“A reason? But you have known for weeks 
that I loved you! Why did you not tell me at 
first that there was a reason against it? Why, 
when I have been hopeful and happy, did you 
not let me know that it would all come to noth- 
ing in the end? I couldn’t have believed that 
you would be so false,” was the protest of his 
outraged heart. 


’beth’s promise. 


345 


False! she — ^wlien her heart was almost break* 
ing! How could she tell him of that promise, 
and perhaps ruin his career in the profession he 
had chosen, by causing him, in the first flush of 
feeling, to resign? No: swayed by the nicest 
sense of honor, she would hold her peace, and 
suffer his reproach; her promise must be kept, 
even though the sacrifice of her earthly happi- 
ness should shadow her whole after life. 

‘‘I cannot explain, ” she said at last, “but I 
ask you to believe one thing. I had no design 
of deceiving or trifling with you. ’ ’ 

“To believe that, I must know just one thing, 
and I beg you, for God’s sake, to answer me 
truly. It will not be so intolerable for me to 
bear, if you will only tell me that but for this 
one ‘ reason ’ you would have accepted me, ’ ’ he 
plead. 

“If it will comfort you — yes. Try and think 
kindly of me, as I shall of you,” she said. 

“I don’t know what this reason may be, but I 
am satisfied for the present. But I tell you, 
darling, that no reason shall separate us. Al- 
mighty God disposes of human events, and our 
Blessed Lady compassionates her suffering chil- 
dren; to them I will appeal with ceaseless pray- 
ers against this terrible injustice — this blow 
which has fairly unmanned me. I will never 
give you up, ’ ’ he replied, meaning every word 
he said. 

“We must not see each other again. Youi 


346 


’beth’s promise. 


best happiness will be in forgetting me,” she 
said. “You may not think so now, but you 
will by-and-by find somewhere in the world one 
who will make you forget all this disappoint- 
ment — ’ ’ 

“I want only you,” he interrupted, “and 
there is a whisper in my heart even now, assur- 
ing me that I shall yet win you. God only 
knows what it is that has so suddenly risen be- 
tween us. He only knows whether it be a reason 
sanctioned by religion, or if it be only a caprice 
of some over-strained idea of duty. I don’t 
know; but whatever it is — after what you told 
me just now — I won’t abide by it. Will you 
promise one thing?” he asked, eagerly. 

“You will not ask that which I cannot prom- 
ise, I know. What is it?” 

‘ ‘ Promise me that if at any time or moment 
this reason shall cease to exist, you will let me 
know, by a word or a line, even if I am at the 
ends of the earth. You can always learn where 
I am by inquiring at the Navy Department. 
Will you promise this ? ” 

“Oh, it would be a vain promise! — that ‘rea- 
son’ will only end with my life, ’ ’ she said, wj th 
a choking sensation in her throat. 

“But promise me!” he insisted. 

‘ ' I promise as you wish, then, but it is as I 
say,” she replied. 

“And you’ll be true to me, ’Beth?” 

“Yes, I will be true to you. Will you please 


'bkth’s promise. 


347 

say no more ? All is said now, and the sooner 
we part the better for both of us. ’ ’ 

Had the girl’s strange sorrow transformed her 
and made her suddenly old, that she could speak 
so calmly and without reserve, while her heart 
was wrung with unutterable pain? The boat 
had been floating farther out and farther into the 
sunshine; the blue waters rippled and laughed 
around them; nothing of the brightness was 
changed since just a little while ago they had 
pushed off from the shore happy and full of hope 
— nothing except their own young lives, into 
which a sudden darkness had fallen. They were- 
both silent on the way back. Bertie Dulaney 
saw that it would be useless to urge an explana- 
tion; but he trusted her, and knew that the 
‘‘reason,” whatever it might be, was in her own 
mind imperative, else why let it bring such bit- 
ter pain to them both ? 

How different the going back to “Ellerslie” 
from their drive down to the lake! ’Beth felt 
that she had grown older, that a long, long time 
must have passed since she had met Bertie Du- 
laney that morning under the trees. But she felt 
that she must keep her trouble to herself; her 
mother should never be pained by knowing the 
sorrow that her promise had brought her, and 
she would bear it with courage for her sake. 
“But why” — was the refrain that kept up its 
sad echo in her heart — “why could not some one 
have told me? Why and how did it happen 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


that Bertie Dulaney’s profession was nevei 
spoken of, oi even hinted at? Oh, if I had only 
known!" It was not many days before she 
learned tiie reason. 

As they turned into the avenue at ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ' ’ 
and the moment of their separation drew near, 
he turned and looked into her drooping eyes, 
into her face on which a shadow rested, and 
said: ‘‘Are you sure there’s no little word you 
can say that I can hang a hope upon? It all 
seems so like a dream, I can’t believe it.” 

‘ ‘ I cannot deceive you — I would not, Mr. Du- 
laney. I have said all there is to say,” she 
answered, lifting her clear, truthful eyes to his. 
“There’s nothing left for us but to part and for- 
get.” 

He helped her out of the phaeton, and, clasp- 
ing her hand closely, held it for a moment, as if 
it were hard to give her up, then, dropping it, 
he walked rapidly away, to go and hide himself 
out of sight, where he could rally his manhood, 
his courage and endurance to his aid, and it is 
not strange that his steps turned towards the 
chapel, which was generally deserted at that 
hour, and that kneeling there he reviewed his 
brief, happy dream, his dreary disappointment, 
and laid his heart bare before Heaven, asking 
strength and help to accept and bear his trial. 
He wanted to bear it like a man. He knew that 
he would have a struggle for it, that he would 
be tempted to seek forgetfulness in associations 


’bkth’s promise. 


349 


and scenes whose allurements he had always 
withstood; and there was nothing left for him 
but to place himself anew under the protection 
of the Blessed Virgin, and ask her to guide and 
succor him through the inexplicable and bitter 
strait in which he found himself. He shrank 
from joining the family party at lunch, because 
he knew that his brother and the girls would ask 
no end of questions as to how he had spent the 
morning, and how ’Beth was, and why he did 
not persuade her to come over with him; all in- 
terspersed with chaff and sly hints, which, under 
other circumstances, would have amused him, 
but would now be positive torture; and going 
round to the stable, he had his horse saddled, 
and telling the groom that he was going to the 
post-town, mounted, and dashed off into the 
road. 

’Beth had gone up to her room with a heavy 
step, after Bertie Dulaney had left her; and, 
locking the door, she threw herself upon her bed, 
and gave vent to her pent-up emotions by a pas- 
sionate fit of weeping. ‘ ‘ Det this strange, un- 
foreseen sorrow that has come into my life, hurt 
only me, sweet and compassionate Mother! Let 
mine be all the pain, and help me, thou to whom 
I was given when I first drew breath, that I may 
be strong and patient to bear my cross,” she 
whispered between her sobs, knowing how futile 
human sympathy would be, even if she confided 
her sorrow to any one. ’Beth’s head ached; and 


350 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


it was no pretence when she declined going down 
to tea on that account. She was glad to )e alone, 
after her mother and Aunt ’Beth, alarmed at her 
absence, had both come up to suggest no end of 
things for her relief, and gone away, hoping that 
she would fall asleep, and awake quite restored. 

“I can’t imagine what it is; she says she did 
not row, and they were not out long; but she 
certainly looks ill,” said Mrs. Morley. 

“A night’s rest will bring her round; so don’t 
fret, Anne, my dear. Women will have head- 
aches as long as the world stands. Come, I’m 
going to look after my bees. Lodo says that 
some of them have made honey as clear as 
crystal,” and getting on their hats, they went 
off to inspect the hives. 

Aunt ’Beth was getting back her old strength 
and courage; there was a faint color in her face, 
and the ring that they all liked to hear in her 
voice. Lodo believed “it was the strike at the 
iron works that had done it, because it took her 
out of herself and stirred her up.” It helped, 
no doubt; but having her kindred with her, and 
enjoying ’Beth’s youth and fine spirits, proud of 
her beauty, and loving her with a strange ten- 
derness, besides feeling responsible for Mrs, 
Morley’ s well-being and comfort, had from the 
first a good effect upon her, a mental stimulus 
which soothed while it invigorated. 

The next morning ’ Beth was down to breakfast, 
a little pale and quiet, as might have been ex- 


"betii’s promise. 


35 ^ 


pected after a headache, but ‘‘quite well,” shetolc 
them. She busied herself ainouj^ the flowers a:: 
usual, re-arranging fresh ones in the vases with 
beautiful taste, practised an hour or two, but sick 
at heart through it all. Then she came and sat 
with her mother, reading aloud from the enter- 
taining “Memoirs of the Duchess d’Abrantes,” 
or talking with her, as she seemed most inclined; 
and the day passed much as other days, except 
that the cloud which had thrown its sudden 
shadow over her life gave her an indefinite sort 
of feeling that yesterday had been very long ago. 
She lay thinking all night instead of sleeping, 
and, looking squarely into the face of her trial, 
she made up her mind that, with God’s help, 
she would do her best to live out her life without 
failure of the behests of such of its duties as lay 
before her. That which had happened was un- 
foreseen, and, as it seemed unavoidable, there was 
neither blame nor reproach to be attached to any- 
one in the case; there was no help for it, and 
nothing to be done except to leave everything in 
the hands of God, and bear the sting it had 
given her in silence until such time as He should 
see fit to heal it. She felt that the hurt of what 
had happened would abide with her, but she 
hoped the Mother of Sorrow would help her to 
bear it without bitterness. The remembrance 
of the pain inflicted on Bertie Dulaney, and the 
sudden destruction of his hopes, sharpened the 
edge of her grief; but it was unforeseen — it was 


352 


bkth’s promise. 


past, and would have to drift along and go down 
out of sight, with other wrecks that are swept 
away on the current of life. 

One day Mrs. Morley and ’Beth returned from 
a short drive, and found the old lady of “Ellers- 
lie ’ ’ walking up and down, under the trees, in 
front of the house, where the lawn grass, kept 
evenly and closely shaved, was like velvet. It 
was her favorite place for that sort of exercise, 
and she had been there some time, wondering 
when they would get back. She turned quickly 
when she heard the wheels approaching, and 
stood watching them as they drove up. 

“You drive very well, my child, and Peg looks 
as proud as if he had taught you, ’ ’ she said to 
’Beth, when she drew up at the carriage step. 

“He’s such a knowing sort of a ‘beastie,’ ” an- 
swered ’Beth, who had got out and stood smooth- 
ing his long nose with her soft hand, ‘ ‘ that I 
should not be surprised if he did have some such 
thought. Mamma was a little bit afraid though, 
just at first.” 

“Yes; but my confidence increased as we went 
on, and I quite enjoyed it,” said Mrs. Morley. 

“I am glad of that,” said Aunt ’Beth, who had 
called Lodo to drive the phaeton round to the 
stables, knowing how much it would delight her, 
and Peg trotted oflf with one of his absurd 
whinnies, which she answered with a ringing 
laugh, a duet so ridiculous as to amuse them all. 

“Eet us sit here a little while, Anne, it is so 


’ekth’s promise. 


353 


lovely, and it will rest you before going up. Pull 
that low chair forward, ’Beth darling, for your 
mother, and sit you here by me — there,” said 
Aunt ’Beth, smoothing the girl’s shining hair; 
then she put her hand under her chin, and hold- 
ing up her face, looked tenderly, yet with scruti- 
nizing glance, into it. “Too pale! where are 
your roses? Fie upon you, to let one headache 
drive them away 1 ’ ’ 

“But I am very well, dear Aunt ’Beth, indeed 
I am, and my roses will come back by-and-by,” 
she answered. “Have you been lonesome since 
we went away?” 

“I might have been, but the Dulaneys have 
been over. I wondered what had become of them 
all, but it seems that they’ve had some trouble 
within a day or two which quite depressed them,” 
said Aunt ’Beth, still fondling and smoothing 
the bright head at her knee; “and they told me 
something that surprised me very much.” 

“Something pleasant, I hope, as well as sur- 
prising,’^’ said Mrs. Morley. ’Beth’s heart stood 
still. What was coming? 

“Not so pleasant as one could have wished, for 
that handsome, delightful son of theirs, Bertie, 
went away, most unexpectedly, Tuesday even- 
ing. But that is not the strange part of it. It 
turns out that he is a naval officer, a lieutenant, 
and went to join his ship, which is ordered to 
China. I thought it was very remarkable that we 
had not had the slightest intimation of his be- 
12 


354 


’}ni:TIl\S PROMISE. 


longing to the Navy, and could not help express- 
ing my surprise. Did you suspect it, ’Beth?” 

“No,” she answered, quietly. 

“Mrs. Dulaney explained their silence on the 
subject by saying that they were all so happy to 
have him home again, after an absence of years 
in various parts of the world, that they had en- 
tered into an agreement among themselves, and 
made him promise, too, not to refer to his profes- 
sion in the remotest way during his leave, so 
they might be able to cheat themselves into the 
delusion that he belonged to them and would 
never go away again; ‘and then,’ said she, 
‘ when Mrs. Morley and her daughter came, in 
deep mourning for their sad loss, which we had 
read of in the New York papers, we thought 
there were still greater reasons for making no 
allusion whatever to ships, or the sea, or the pro- 
fession, lest it should revive painful thoughts in 
their hearts. But, indeed. Miss Morley, I miss 
him dreadfully, and his going away was so sud- 
den! I didn’t dream of such a thing until he 
came down at tea-time and told us he had been 
packing his trunk to go away by the New York 
train that night to join his ship. We were so 
grieved that his father and I begged him to re- 
sign; his father even offered to make him per- 
fectly independent by settling his portion upon 
him if he would only consent; but he said he 
loved the career he had chosen, and did not think 
it would be honorable to resign without some 


’beth’s promise. 


355 


very important reason. He said, dear fellow! that 
he was sorry to grieve ns by refusing, and hoped 
we’d both forgive him. And so. Miss Morley, we 
had to submit, he seemed so cut up and sorry. ’ 
Then I said what I could to comfort her, for 
tears were streaming from her eyes all the time 
we weie talking. Mr. Dulaney had left us to- 
gether and joined the young people in the music 
room, to avoid the subject which his wife said 
he felt very keenly. ’ ’ 

“I am very sorry for them,” said Mrs. Morley, 
glancing at ’Beth, who sat looking down at the 
dancing, flickering shadows of the leaves on the 
grass, her face quite pale, and about her lips and 
the corners of her mouth a rigid, drawn expres- 
sion in place of the smile that usually dimpled 
them. 

“I liked the young fellow very much,” con- 
tinued Aunt ’Beth, “and his going off in that 
way is incomprehensible, as his leave, his 
mother told me, would not expire for two weeks. 
Young people are so capricious nowadays, there’s 
no counting on them from one day to another. 
I suppose he found it dull here after roving all 
over the world. Did he tell you he was going 
away that evening — the day, you know, that 
you drove to the lake, ’ Beth ? ’ ’ 

“No , but mamma, do you not feel chilly? 

I’ll go up and get your shawl,” said ’Beth, 
hurrying in. She felt that she could bear to 
hear no more about Bertie Dulaney and his going 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


356 

away, so she went upstairs and, after bathing 
her head, sat down at the window to compose 
her mind. 

“ But,” continued Aunt ’Beth to Mrs. Morley, 
“I suppose he must have got his letters by the 
afternoon mail ordering him off. He would 
never have been so discourteous as to go without 
saying good-by to us had he known it in time. 
Only think of his mother not seeing him again 
for three years! I must go over in the morning 
to see her. ’ ’ 

It was all plain to Mrs. Morley. A sudden 
pang had wrung her heart while Aunt ’Beth was 
talking, and her eyes had almost involuntarily 
sought her child’s face, where she saw a confirm- 
ation of her fears. She remembered the promise 
she had urged her to make before coming to 
‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ hoping to shield her life from pos- 
sibilities which had so bitterly darkened her 
own. She had watched Bertie Dulaney’s devo- 
tion to ’Beth; the signs of his love were unmis- 
takable to her keen perception, and she likewise 
noted that ’Beth accepted and was pleased with 
his attentions, and happy in his society. She 
was sure that he had offered himself the day 
they went to the lake, and that ’Beth had dis- 
carded him when he revealed his profession to 
her. She remembered the joyousness of their 
going and the silence of their return, and how 
’Beth had gone directly up to her room with 
slow steps, making no allusion whatever to their 


’bkth’s promise. 


35 ? 


drive afterwards — and, to crown all, his sudden 
departure, and the pale quiet which had since 
then settled upon her face, as if some insidious 
disease were eating away the springs of her life. 

‘‘Oh, if I only knew that it were not so, and 
that she does not care for him,’’ thought the 
poor mother, “ I should be so thankful! Oh, my 
child, my child! has a sorrow like this come 
into your young life ? But who could foresee it ?’ ’ 
Very tenderly she spoke to, and kissed ’Beth 
that night, but made no reference to what was 
troubling her; she felt that she had no right to 
intrude on a confidence that was so carefully 
guarded, and on a pain that she had no power to 
soothe. 

“Wake me in time to go to Mass with you, 
dear mamma,’’ said ’Beth, as her mother turned 
to go into her own room. She had not been to 
Mass since that day on the lake, or near the 
chapel to say her beads ; she had feared meeting 
Bertie Dulaney, not dreaming that he had gone 
away that very night. But she could go now, 
and she felt that there, at least, she could pray 
for courage to bear her cross at the very feet of 
Him who alone could give her help. Her life 
and its duties were before her; she could not let 
this strange trial, which seemed to have dropped 
upon her from the clouds, prey upon her mind 
until she grew morbid and helpless to rise supe- 
rior to it. She had made a solemn promise, 
which, having appealed to God to witness, she 


358 


bkth’s promise. 


must keep faithfully; and with His help and the 
help of the Blessed Virgin Mother, outlive with- 
out vain regrets all that had happened to disap- 
poi it and embitter her existence. Henceforth 
she must look forward, and in time ‘Met the 
dead past bury its dead.” These were :he 
thoughts that were gradually — not all at once — 
evolved in her heart from the pain of the blow 
that had stricken it, showing a pure, sound na- 
ture and a true, noble will, which would in time, 
with the blessing of Heaven, reward her efforts 
with success. 

Mrs. Morley never made but one attempt to 
sound ’Beth’s silence. Some two weeks later, 
when they were alone one evening in the dusk, 
wandering arm in arm amongst the flaming 
sumachs and the great spicy chrysanthemums, 
whose white and crimson flowers filled the air 
with pungent aromas, she said: 

“’Beth, my child, will you tell me some- 
thing ? ’ ’ 

“Anything that I can tell you, dear mamma — 
yes,” said the girl, with a startled look. 

“Did Bertie Dulaney ever tell you that he 
cared for you ? ’ ’ 

“We will not speak of him, dear mamma, if 
you please,” she answered, speaking low. 

“Tell me then, my ’Beth, tell me this: are 
you happy ? Answer me truly, my child. ’ ’ 

“I have you, precious mamma, why should I 
not be? You and I are all to each other,” she 
said, clasping her mother close in her arms. 


’beth’s promise. 


359 


And Mrs. Morley never referred to the subject 
again. Even if it were as she supposed, it was 
better for ’Beth to suffer an early disappointment 
like this, than live to endure such agonies as 
had come to her own lot, she thought, and tried 
to be content, hoping that time would wear off the 
sharp edge of the trial, and that ’Beth would 
yet find happiness that would more than compen- 
sate her for all. *How often she wished they had 
not come to ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ or that they had come 
earlier, or deferred it later, thereby avoiding 
Bertie Dulaney. But how could they, when 
Aunt ’Beth had so much need of them? and how 
could they ever have dreamed of such a thing as 
had happened? Then she thought it would be 
better to go home. They had stayed longer al- 
ready than they had intended, and, as Aunt ’Beth 
was now quite well, there was no reason why 
they should not return; she was sure the change 
would be good for ’Beth, and knew that Father 
Thomas would cheer them and give them enough 
to do to divert her mind from its sadness. She- 
mcntioned it to ’Beth one morning on their way 
from Mass, who said: “Yes, mamma, I shall be 
glad to get home. I’m afraid it is getting too 
frosty for you up here.” Oh, how tender and 
loving she was to her mother, redoubling her at- 
tention to every little need, guarding her own 
words and looks lest she should ever suspect the 
sacrifice she endured for her dear sake! being 
willing rather to die than add even a feather’s 


’beth’s promise. 


360 

weight of care to her heart which had already 
been so long and so sorely stricken. 

Aunt ’Beth opposed their going away from 

Ellerslie” until after Christmas. ‘‘What shall 
1 ever do without you both?” she asked again 
and again. Of course it was a pain to them to. 
leave her, but they told her it was necessary, al- 
though neither of them could explain why. Cer- 
tain business letters from her lawyer reached 
Mrs. Morley one morning really demanding her 
personal attention, a tangible and practical 
reason, to which Aunt ’Beth was satisfied to 
yield. That night she slipped a little package 
into ’Beth’s hand when she kissed her “good- 
night,” and whispered: “Your father’s last 
Christmas gift, my child. I found it in his 
chest — that time, you know, when his things 
came home — marked for his ‘little ’Beth’ and 
took it out to keep for you, until the first v/ild 
grief of our hearts had subsided a little. It is a 
beautiful locket, set round with large pearls. 
.You must wear it for his dear sake. I will speak 
to your mother about it to-morrow, and I know 
she will be glad of what I did.” 

“I am so thankful to get it! I have often 
wished for some little personal memento of my 
dear father, and this is like a message from 
him,” said ’Beth, pressing it close to her heart. 

“Yes, it is a message; ‘For my dear little 
’Beth’ is on the wrapping in his own hand-writ- 
ing. Not that you were really little, my dear, 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


361 


but he very often expressed his love by using 
this diminutive.” Aunt ’Beth kissed her tend- 
erly, and then said: “It was a great disappoint- 
ment to me, your not fancying Bertie Dulaney, 
my child. He used to remind me of your 
father, somehow, and it would have suited so 
well for you to have lived at ‘Tracy-Holme’ 
until you came into possession at ‘Ellerslie.’ ” 
“Aunt ’Beth, I had no idea that you were so 
romantic! I am going to follow exactly in your 
footsteps, and never change my name,” said 
’Beth, with a little laugh that veiled the sudden 
heartache she felt. “Good-night, darling! I sup' 
pose mamma is sound asleep.” 


362 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

HOW ’beth fought out her battles. 

The Indian summer was dying away in gray 
mists when Mrs. Morley and ’Beth left “Ellers- 
lie;” biting frosts and rude winds had despoiled 
the trees of their richly-tinted leaves, which were 
strewn over the mossy earth in grotesque pat- 
terns and bright patches of color, like fantastic 
designs in a kaleidoscope; the song-birds had 
taken flight, and even the swallows, always the 
last to go, began to shiver, and decide it was 
time for them to move southward. The old lady 
of ‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ felt disconsolate, and the spacious 
house, with its wide halls, high ceilings, and 
silent chambers, seemed to her at times filled 
with whispering echoes that made it feel more 
lonely, although it was only the sobbing and 
sighing of the winds she heard. But sometimes 
the wind has a voice that speaks strange words 
to the heart and memory. She wondered the 
first day or two, while the rain beat and lashed 
her windows, and she could see nothing beyond 
the mist that enfolded ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ how on earth 
she would be able to fill the void in her daily 
life, now that ’Beth and her mother were really 
gone; but when the storm gave place to blue 


’bkth’s promise. 363 

skies and sunshine, she found so much to occupy 
her, so many outside claims upon her attention 
and sympathy, that she had no time for sadness; 
without going out of the way to seek it, there 
was work enough for her to do; and, as was her 
habit, she did it with a will, turning neither to 
the right nor left until it was accomplished. 
And kodo, ever on the alert for her comfort, 
kept the fire always bright upon the hearth, and 
fresh flowers from the conservatory upon the 
table. Her writing-desk, work-basket, and 
books were always just exactly where they ought 
to be; and when Aunt ’Beth was in the mood 
for it, she would rejoice to bring in her sewing, 
and, on the slightest encouragement, talk over 
the summer and all that had happened, Mrs. 
Morley and ’Beth being the central figures, both 
of them encircled by the girl’s grateful affection 
and vivid fancy in such an aureole of brightness, 
that while her own eyes glistened more and 
more, and her sewing dropped idly in her lap as 
she went on, the heart of the old woman of ‘ ‘ El- 
lerslie ’ ’ warmed up and felt gladdened almost as 
much as if those they talked of had dropped in 
unexpectedly and paid them a brief visit. 

But we must follow them. It was a cold gray 
morning with a drizzling rain when the train ran 
into the station at Washington. The gas was 
still burning in the public waiting room, and 
the few travellers who were there, waiting for 
the ticket-office to open, intending to leave by 


364 


bkth’s promisk. 


the outgoing train, were huddled around the 
stove, or regaling themselves with hot coffee and 
other comfortable things at the lunch table, 
served by a drowsy, untidy woman, who yawned 
audibly every few moments. Mrs. Morley, over- 
come with fatigue, reclined on their shawls, her 
head sometimes on ’Beth’s shoulder — who would 
so place herself, whenever she stirred, as to sup - 
port it — and had slept through the night, undis- 
turbed by the motion and rumbling of the train 
as it dashed on and on, ever into the dark, ex- 
cept when now and then the red glare from large 
smelting furnaces, at no great distance from the 
railroad, cast a lurid and uncanny light upon it, 
making the few passengers who were awake al- 
most think they had caught glimpses of an in- 
ferno, to which the night gloom, that followed 
as they plunged on, was a relief and rest. ’Beth 
held her mother’s hand in her soft, warm clasp, 
but she did not sleep; her thoughts were too full 
of memories of her dream of happiness, which, 
but for the pain its sudden vanishing left with 
her, seemed as unreal as any other dream. Her 
youth and strength, while it helped her in one 
way, intensified her unhappiness in another. 
She wanted to bear her trial with courage and 
patience, but there were times when she rebelled 
and thought she might have been spared so cruel 
an experience, an experience which she some- 
times imagined was more like a malicious ruling 
of fate than the ordering of a divine and merci- 


’beth’s promise. 


3^J 

ful Providence. Oftentimes slie wondered why 
she had been — as it seemed to her — so nnnecces- 
sarily tortured. And so she had been fighting 
her battle out, all alone, for days and weeks 
praying for help, and ever wondering if God, 
who had permitted so heavy a blow to fall upon 
her, would not some time reveal His purpose, 
and make it plain to her. If He would only do 
this, how easy a task to be resigned! She would 
have been so thankful to forget; but did people 
ever forget — she questioned — that which had 
dried the fountain of gladness in their heart, 
turning life into an arid desert without oasis oi 
flower ? She could not tell. The lines that had 
fallen to her were strange and untried, and she 
was sure only of one thing, her womanly pride, 
which would enable her, at least, to conceal her 
cross, instead of moping weakly and inviting 
the pity and comments of the curious. But 
even this would not, could not satisfy the higher 
craving of her heart, which was, not to forget 
Bertie Dulaney, but to remember him without 
pain, as one altogether worthy of being remem- 
bered, and to think of her lost happiness with- 
out a single bitter regret. She knew there was 
a long and sorrowful struggle before her, into 
which no human help could enter, and which 
she would have to bear alone. “Catholics,’^ 
she argued, ‘‘find consolation in the practice of 
their religion; even my mother’s broken heart 
was solaced and her life made endurable by it; 


366 


’bktii’s promise. 


but what can heljp me? I am not a Catholic, 
and my sorrow is so different from most other 
sorrows, and seems so undeserved and unneces- 
sary, that I cannot see how God can pity suffer- 
ings which He might have averted! Oh, Father! 
couldst Thou not have spared me! Oh Mary, 
my Mother! couldst thou not have led me by 
another and less thorny way!’’ 

And so it had been going on in ’Beth’s mind, 
over and over again, ever since the first numb- 
ness and surprise of her grief had gone by, while 
outwardly she was always composed and had 
made the days pass as usual in the sweet home- 
life at “Ellerslie.” She had gone every morn- 
ing with her mother to Mass, and tried to pray; 
sometimes she went alone towards evening to say 
her beads, and ask help of that pure, sinless 
Heart which had been pierced with the sword of 
grief ; but a cloud seemed to hang between her 
and the devotion she had so loved, until Paters 
and Aves became, as it were, a vain repetition 
of words that went no farther than her lips. She 
played and sang, and gathered flowers for the 
vases every day; she talked, and even laughed 
sometimes; drove about with chattering little 
Ivodo, up and down through the beautiful coun- 
tr}' which was flaming and glowing with varie- 
gated and gorgeous autumnal tints; she gathered 
ferns, which, touched by the frosts, looked like 
stately golden palms, and a store of scarlet, bronze, 
and green leaves, dashed with crimson and yel- 


’beth’s promise. 


367 


low, to press and make into winter bouquets — • 
bright memories of ‘‘Ellerslie’ — for her Wash- 
ington home; she went over hill and dale, every- 
where except to the lake, which she avoided, 
feeling that there her bright dream had gone 
down out of sight, like something with a mill- 
stone about its neck. The sense of duality that 
had come into her life since that day, bewildered 
her sometimes and made her wonder which was 
the real, which the unreal state. 

And now, all through the weary night of their 
journey home, the same thoughts had been ring- 
ing their sad changes through ’Beth’s mind as 
she sat looking out into the blank darkness, until 
the first faint shadowy streaks of dawn fringed 
the horizon with its solemn light. She watched 
it flickering, broadening, flushing like the inside 
of a sea-shell, deepening into crimson, and at last 
bursting into golden splendor, and she closed her 
heavy eyes, wondering if light would ever rise 
for her. There was nothing sentimental or ro- 
mantic in ’Beth Morley; she had all the attri- 
butes of a fine, noble nature; and when her 
strange trial had come upon her, like a bolt out 
of a cloudless sky, she was full of the blithe 
gladsomeness of untried girlhood; and now — 
although she was unconscious of the fact — the 
ordeal through which she was passing was devel- 
oping and refining through ‘ ‘pain’ s furnace heat, ’ ’ 
as well as strengthening, all her higher and bet- 
ter qualities, and leading her, step by step, 


’bkth’s promise. 


368 

nearer and nearer to the open portals of that di- 
vine Faith wherein alone the weary heart can 
find its true rest, its best solace. 

“Dear mamma, how soundly you slept! Here 
we are in Washington, and there’s dear old Andy 
watching every window as the cars slip by, and 
looking very blue because he doesn’t see us, we 
being on the wrong side,” said ’Beth, beginning 
to gather their wraps. 

“I believe I have slept all night,” said Mrs. 
Morley, now fully awake. “But you, my dar- 
ling! ” 

“Oh, I’ve been dreaming too!” said ’Beth, in 
cheerful tones; “and there was the loveliest sun- 
rise! I thought we were going to have a splen- 
did day, but here’s a Scotch mist to welcome us 
home. ’ ’ 

By this time the train had stopped, and the 
weary, sleepy passengers were thronging out 
with carpet-bags, baskets, bundles and babies; 
and Andy, who stood on the platform scanning 
every face that appeared, and looking more mis- 
erable each moment, suddenly beheld the two he 
was waiting for in the door- way of the last car, 
and his old brown face broke into smiles of wel- 
come as he bustled past and around every obstacle 
that lay in his way, to help them down, and tell 
them how glad he was to see them home once 
more. “And, ma’am, how proud I am to see 
you lookin’ so well, is mor’n I can tell you; and 
as for young missis, it ’pears to me she’s grbWed 


beth’s promise. 


3'39 

taller, but she aint so rosy-like as she was; I 
s’ pose travellin’ all night’s what done it; here’s 
the coupe jest a step from here, my ladies,” said 
Andy, as, loaded with wraps and hand-bags, he 
led the way to the carriage and handed them in. 
‘‘Pull the robe round you good, missis; it’s right 
down cold, but we’ll soon be home,” continued 
the faithful old servant, as he tucked the robe 
around their feet and deposited the shawls and 
cloaks on the front seat. In another minute our 
tired travelers were being driven rapidly home, 
where welcoming dusky faces greeted them at 
the door; within, bright fires threw out a cheer- 
ful glow, and a hot breakfast awaited them; 
afterwards a long, quiet rest. ’Beth, when alone 
in her own room, could but contrast her going 
away with her coming home. She went, filled 
with bright anticipations, her heart bubbling 
over with the joyousness of a wholesome, happy 
nature, her outlook into the future undimmed 
by even the shadow of a cloud, or a dream of the 
least thing sorrowful; she had come back no 
longer a merry girl, ready to catch and enjoy 
every fleeting pleasure; she seemed to herself to 
be years older, a saddened woman, bearing a se- 
cret grief for which she thought there was no 
healing, no help. 

But happily for ’Beth Morley, there was no 
lack of occupation in these first few days at 
home. Unpacking trunks, assorting and ar- 
ranging things, and assisting her mother in get- 
12* 


370 


’ BETH'S PROMISE. 


ting their domestic affairs into the right groovijs, 
gave her no time for sad thoughts. Then one 
or two visits with her mother to the dear grave 
under the old trees on Georgetown Heights, 
which they found had been tended by their faith- 
ful old servant with scrupulous care, where great 
white chrysanthemums and a few late roses shed 
fragrance, and the grass was still green above the 
quiet resting-place of their unforgotten dead. 

After a few days the Brandts and some others, 
old navy friends brought to Washington by duty, 
began to drop in of evenings, glad beyond words 
to see Mrs. Morley, who now, for 'Beth's sake, 
received visitors and exerted herself to entertain 
them in her own graceful, quiet way. Father 
Thomas took an old-fashioned early tea with 
them once, “in honor of their return," he said, 
and had many things to tell them; some sad 
enough, others mirth-provoking. He noted Mrs. 
Morley' s improved looks, but there was a some- 
thing in 'Beth's countenance and manner which 
gave him infinite concern, the more so as he 
could neither define it nor ask its meaning. He 
was glad to hear all they had to tell him about 
‘ ‘ Ellerslie' ' and its brave old chatelaine, whose 
energy and courage when the “strike" began 
delighted him, and whose amiable paganism and 
untiring benevolence combined, amused and 
greatly interested him, as did also Mrs. Morley' s 
account of the Dulaneys, and the beautiful 
chapel at “Tracy-Holme," of their hospitality to 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


371 


the overworked clergy during the summer 
months, which was rewarded a thousandfold by 
having a daily Mass and other devotions at St. 
Joseph’s during the whole season. 

‘^That is admirable!” said Father Thomas, 
“and I engage your good offices, ’Beth, to get 
your friends to put my name upon their invalid 
list for ne:^t summer. I should enjoy it highly 
— I mean a visit to the good Dulaneys, and to 
“Ellerslie” too, remember! Aunt ’Beth would 
refresh me beyond measure, so you must be sure, 
my child, to put in a good w^ord for me. ’ ’ 

“Never fear about an invitation. Aunt ’Beth 
is quite well acquainted with you. Father 
Thomas, and nothing would delight her more 
than to have you for a guest; I know you’d get 
on famously together,” said ’Beth; “the diffi- 
culty wdll be on your part if you don’t go to 
‘Ellerslie’ next summer.” 

“Well, my child, my present mind is fixed 
upon going if I’m invited, unless war, pestilence, 
or famine give me a counter-invitation to stay 
with my people. Good-night,” said Father 
Thomas, shaking hands. ’Beth went to the 
hall door with him, and the last sound Mrs. 
Morley heard was his genial laugh as he went 
out. 

Among the letters brought by the postman 
next morning, was one of large size, edged and 
sealed with black, the seal covered with heraldic 
devices, and large enough for an escutcheon. It 


372 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


was a portentous-looking missive, and Mrs. Mor* 
ley opened it, wondering what it might reveal. 
She soon knew. It was from Rome, from the 
Prince Sforza-Piccolomini, announcing the death 
of Madame the Princess, his wife, from an attack 
of Roman fever. 

‘‘Oh, poor Bonne MereP'^ exclaimed Mrs. 
Morley , her eyes filling with tears as The remem- 
brance of all Mrs. Hamilton’s well-intended 
kindness and generosity rushed through her 
mind; ‘'she is dead, ’Beth; died among strangers 
in a strange land; you never knew her, my 
child, but she was very good to me and my 
brothers.” 

“I am sorry, dear mamma; I have always 
hoped to know her for that very reason. But 
there’s something else in the envelope; what can 
it be?” said ’Beth, taking it from the table 
where her mother had placed it. ‘ ‘ It seems to 
be a letter, mamma. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The dear, kind heart, thinking of me to the 
very last!” said Mrs. Morley, opening it. It was 
a communication from the Roman lawyer, who 
had drawn up the last will and testament of her 
highness, the Princess Sforza, relating to certain 
bequests to her granddaughter, Anne Morley, nee 
Hamilton, among which were the portraits of her 
parents. Col. and Mrs. Hamilton, with all the 
costly furniture and silver belonging to her Bos- 
ton residence, and, last of all, the beautiful old 
home among the Berkshire hills. It was drawn 


’bkth’s promise. 


373 


up in duly legal form, and so worded that the 
testator’s meaning could not be misunderstood in 
the smallest particular. Having a good knowl- 
edge of Italian, Mrs. Morley had no difficulty in 
reading the document; she was informed that 
Madame the Princess had settled a handsome 
life annuity on her husband, and left him to do 
with it as he pleased, also all the elegant and 
costly appointments of the old family palace in 
Rome, and of the villa near Perugia; the balance 
of her fortune she had left to be divided equally 
between a New England college and a public 
library in Boston. 

shall be very glad to have the portraits of 
my father and mother, but all the rest will only 
add to my cares. As to the Berkshire hills 
property, it seems simply embarrassing, for we 
shall, sometime, live at ‘‘Ellerslie;” your dear 
father wished it, and his wishes will, under all 
circumstances, be sacred to me. Aunt ’Beth also 
spoke to me about it, and would have us make it 
our home even now, that she might enjoy it a 
little while with us. I can’t think what I shall 
do, unless — unless — ” Mrs. Morley did not say 
what, but her face had suddenly brightened as 
some idea, which was evidently pleasant, flitted 
into her mind like an inspiration, and did not 
flit away again, for she held it, and sat turning 
it over and over, while her hands dropped upon 
the papers in her lap, and she forgot eveiy^thing 
else except the castles she was building — not in 


374 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


Spain — but among the beautiful Berkshire nil Is. 
’Beth went up to her room, intending to put on 
her wraps and hat and run off to pay Father 
Thomas a visit; she really felt no interest in the 
Roman news, or in the legacy itself, only so far 
as it gave pleasure to her mother, who, she imag- 
ined, had already formed some plans about a 
portion of it Before she was quite ready, Mrs. 
Morley came up and asked her to wait a few 
moments for her, as she was going to deposit the 
Roman papers in her lawyer’s care, and they 
could walk together, and afterwards call on 
Father Thomas, where the coupe would meet 
them, and then take a short drive. 

The city of Washington was again full. 
Every one had returned from their summering 
in Europe, or among the mountains, or at the 
Virginia Springs, or Saratoga, to their stately, 
pleasant homes; and the friendly autumn visit- 
ing, so different from the wild visiting whirl of 
the season, had begun. Old acquaintances and 
many new ones, among whom were some of the 
leading Catholic ladies of the city, called upon 
the Morleys, who received calls although not 
visiting themselves. Among these was an old 
schoolmate of Mrs. Morley’ s, the only one of her 
companions with whom she had been intimate or 
had held any correspondence — a Mrs. S])encer, 
whose husband had just been appointed one of 
the judges of the Supreme Court. Mrs. Justice 
Spencer was a cultivated, elegant wom.an, well 


'beth’s promise. 


375 


fitted for her distinguished position, and pos- 
sessed of virtues and traits which made her a 
good wife and mother, and shed a happy lustre 
over her home life. She paid due ‘‘tribute to 
Caesar’’ in discharging her social duties punctil- 
iously and systematically, as the wives of men 
in high official life in Washington are expected 
to do; but her true happiness was found in the 
society of her husband and children and a small 
circle of intimates whom she had culled here and 
there from among the fashionable people who 
thronged around her, and taken to her warm 
heart for this or that trait or quality by which 
she discerned they were congenial with her own 
tastes and requirements. It was a great happi- 
ness to her to meet Mrs. Morley, although her 
sympathetic heart was deeply touched by the 
pathos of her quiet, patient sorrow, to which 
neither of them referred, however; and Mrs. 
Morley was well pleased to renew the old friend- 
ship. It struck this worldly-wise lady that ’ Beth 
was the most lovely and spirititelle creature she 
had ever seen, but that she was too pale, too 
quiet; and she rushed to the conclusion that her 
heal til was really suffering from wearing heavy 
mourning and confining herself to so secluded a 
life — an opinion in which Captain Brandt, who 
was one of Mrs. Spencer’s greatest admirers, fully 
agreed, and hoped that she would succeed in 
bringing her, by degrees, into society. “It is 
not natural for a beautiful young girl like ’Beth 


’beth’s promise. 


Morley to be mewed up like a disconsolate old 
maid,” said the old captain; ‘‘but you’ll have to 
manage like a diplomat, madam, to succeed; for 
Mrs. Morley, who’s an angel if there ever was 
one upon earth, has got to be — to be — so ex- 
tremely pious, you know — a Roman Catholic — 
that I shouldn’t be surprised any day to hear 
that mother and daughter had gone into the 
nunnery over there in Georgetown and taken the 
black veil. Hang me, if I would! I know if poor 
Morley could tell us his thoughts he’d say they’d 
grieved enough, and that he didn’t want that 
beautiful girl of his hid under a bushel.” 

‘ ‘ I see that I shall have to feel my way very 
carefully. I wouldn’t for all the world pain 
them, even by an effort to do them good. Mean- 
time I agree with you. Captain, and shall do my 
best,” said Mrs. Spencer. 

But ’Beth’s reply to Mrs Spencer’s persuasions 
and invitations was: “You will please excuse 
me, just this time. No, I don’t mean to bury 
myself; I mean to go into society, but not now; 
and when the time comes, dear Mrs. Spencer, 
you shall be my chaperone^ if you will take me. 
Yes: I am sure it would interest me, and per- 
haps I should enjoy it in a way; but I really can- 
not imagine anything just yet in the gay world 
that would not give me pain instead of pleasure 
by its very contrast. ’ ’ 

“Very well, my dear. I’ll wait, on condition 
that you’ll sometimes come to me in a quiet 
way.” 


BETH'S PROMISE. 


377 


“Yes, I promise that, for you are mamma’s old 
friend; but that is not all — I’ll come because 1 
love you myself, dear Mrs. Spencer,” said ’Beth, 
with her winning smile. 

‘ ‘ Give my love to your mother, and tell her x 
don’t know such a gad-about as she is; here I 
have missed her three successive times, and I 
want her to send me word when I may expect to 
find her at home before I come again,” said Mrs. 
Spencer, laughing, as she held ’Beth’s hand in 
the friendly pressure of her own, and kissed her 
affectionately, 

“Yes: mamma has many errands.” 

“I understand,” interrupted Mrs. Spencer; 
“but indeed, my dear, I think that going so 
much as she does among the poor and miserable, 
is not good for such a sensitive creature as your 
mother. I’ve heard all about it, you see.” 

“Mamma will certainly not agree with you, 
and please, dear Mrs. Spencer, do not say any- 
thing like that to her — it would pain her, I 
think.” 

“No, dear; depend upon it I will not,” she 
answered, as she went out the hall door to hei 
carriage. 

And ’Beth went on the even tenor of her way, 
bravely fulfilling each daily duty that presented 
itself, whether great or small. She was neithei 
moody nor unduly silent; she conversed cheer- 
fully with friends, and never allowed her secret 
pain to throw a moment’s shadow over the ten- 


378 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


der, confiding intercourse between her mothei 
and herself. The feeling that she was living 
two separate existences in one, each a distinct 
individuality — one unreal and like a phantasma- 
goria, the other weary, heavy, and smarting 
with pain — grew upon her. It was a strange 
sort of life, and while the quiet endurance of it 
saved her mother from sharing her pain, and 
veiled her bruised heart from curious eyes, it 
brought her no comfort, no peace or resignation, 
no help; and she knew now that supports like 
these could only come from a Divine Source. 
She went often to the old church. It was rest- 
ful to her tired young heart to kneel where no 
disguise was needed, where her inner life lay 
open before God, who she hoped would one day 
pity her; and where she could ask succor of her 
who had known sorrow above all sorrows, while 
she bowed at her feet, bedewing them with her 
tears. And although there was a certain degree 
of consolation in this, ’Beth knew that some- 
thing was yet requisite to obtain the help she 
craved; and it dawned upon her that, to attain 
it, she must throw off the trammels of self, the 
bewildering mists of human reasoning, and 
humbly yield all to a supernatural faith in the 
Truth, as revealed by Almighty God to His 
Church. And she wished that she could; it was 
as if a hand which she could not reach was 
stretched out to help her. She had resumed her 
visits to Father Thomas, and many were their 


'bkth’s promise. 


379 


long talks together over her difficulties; but she 
had not yet unbosomed herself fully to him. 
With the keen eye of experience, and from long 
observation of every phase of human nature, he 
had discerned there was a something that had 
brought sorrow into the life of this once light- 
hearted laughing girl ; but she was reticent, and 
although he would have been glad to know what 
it was — thinking, if he did, it would be the pos- 
sible lever by which he could remove her difficul- 
ties and break down the partition wall that kept 
her outside the one true Fold — he did not feel 
free to question her as to a temporal affair about 
which she was not inclined to speak; and, after 
all, peAaps he might be mistaken. He could 
see plainly that her cheerfulness was only as- 
sumed, that there was neither life nor spirit in it; 
but he determined to seem not to notice, hoping 
that she would voluntarily confide in him, if her 
trouble was of a nature that he could by any 
possibility relieve. 

“’Beth, my child,” he said, after one of their 
long conferences, as with a weary sigh she rose 
to go, ‘ ‘ I cannot understand why you hold back. 
You believe — you admit that you do — you are con- 
vinced that the Catholic Church is divinely 
founded, that she is one, undivided, universal 
and holy; the conservator of all Truth; you do 
not doubt her dogmas ; what, then, is it, I ask in 
the name of God, that prevents your entrance 
into her safe fold? It must be pride. You aspire 


380 


’beth’s promise. 


to understand the mysteries of the Faith wnich 
you believe; could you do so, what need of faith? 
Those mysteries which are divine are to be ac- 
cepted without hesitation or doubt, because God, 
who is the eternal Truth, has given them to His 
Church through His only Son, who sealed His 
divine mission by the death of the Cross, and 
confirmed it by His glorious resurrection and the 
coming of the Holy Ghost. You have always 
believed this and received it as a Christian doc- 
trine. Can you understand it? Can you com- 
prehend the Trinity, which is the greatest mys- 
tery of all? You have accepted these great truths 
without question all your life; you believe that 
Jesus Christ is truly the Son of God, aftd yet 
you hesitate to receive the Faith He established, 
because you cannot understand its dogmas, 
founded and taught by His very word? Do you 
expect to understand, as you do natural things, 
how these wonderful miracles of the power and 
love of Almighty God are wrought? I tell you, 
my dear child, you are trifling with the grace of 
God, and if you go on, it may be withdrawn 
from you.” 

“But what am I to do?” she asked, piteously. 

“Do? Come like a little child and say, ‘Dear 
Ford, I submit myself to thee! I am willing to 
put all human reasoning and pride under foot. 
I desire only the Truth and Thy grace; I believe 
and willingly accept that which my feeble, hu- 
man understanding cannot grasp; grant me faith, 


beth’s promise. 


381 


grant me courage, and enlighten my spirit!’ Do, 
this, my child. Stop reading and puzzling your 
brain over what is no human problem, but is that 
which no mere human science can ever reach, can 
ever measure or fathom — Faith — the ‘believing 
without having seen, ’ for which the soul will 
receive eternal benedictions! You shut your- 
self out from help, from consolation, and, in the 
end, from hope itself, by standing and waiting, 
with folded hands, for a miracle.” 

“I will try. I only dread the doubts that will 
come afterwards, and perhaps make me give 
up,” she said, in a low voice. Father Thomas 
had never spoken so to her before. Her heart — 
prepared by suffering, and finding naught that 
earth could offer sufficient to impart the peace, 
the true rest she so eagerly longed for — received 
his words like seed sown in good soil. 

“That is a temptation, my child. Almighty 
God is too generous to abandon those who throw 
themselves with simple, confiding trust upon His 
mercy. Ask the help of Our Blessed Tady of 
Succor, who, ever watchful over the souls for 
whom her Divine Son surrendered His life, ever 
jealous of the heritage won at such bitter cost, 
stands only waiting your approach, to lead you, 
my child, to Him. Put aside, then, the littleness 
of intellectual pride; by a supreme effort throw 
off whatever impedes your true progress, and in 
a spirit of docility and humility accept the great 
grace, the great boon that is offered you ‘without 


382 


’ BETH'S PROMISE. 


money and .without price,’ yet, in value, more 
inestimable than the universe. Remember who 
it is that stands at the door of your heart ashing 
admittance, and close it no longer against Him, 
whose Sacred Heart suffered unto death for our 
transgressions.” 

“ But I am not ready: my own heart, my own 
life, must be changed.” 

“Undoubtedly, my child; but that cannot be 
all at once. It is only the will that can be 
changed — the free will — at first. True religion 
is a principle that cannot be worked out except 
by gradual progression, fighting our way inch by 
inch against ourselves for the love of God. Sub- 
mit the will and intention to our Lord; be docile 
like a little child that is led by the hand learning 
how to walk, a short tottering step at a time; 
like the same child learning the rudiments of 
speech and letters and the uses of life from his 
mother, in whose love he confides and to whom 
he clings for support, feeling certain that she un- 
derstands all that he fails to comprehend, and 
happy in her safe guidance. The soul will have 
its battles to fight so long as breath animates our 
clay; but, fed and strengthened by the Divine 
Sacraments of our Holy Mother the Church, we 
shall gradually — if faithful — learn the science 
of the saints and walk in new raiment. ’ ’ 

“I will see you again. Father Thomas; I begin 
to see that I myself am the only impediment. 
You have been very patient and kind with my 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


383 


ignorance all through these two years of reading 
and disputing,” said ’Beth. Then hesitating as 
if half inclined to go, and yet half inclined to 
speak, her lips quivered, and she was about turn- 
ing away, when Father Thomas said: “What is 
it, my child?” 

“Would it not seem a very mean thing. Father 
Thomas, for me to take this step just now, as if 
I — I just did it because I am unhappy? Father, 
I have had a great trial, and I want to be sure 
that human motives, after all, are not urging me 
to seek consolation by becoming a Catholic.” 

“Another temptation, my dear child. Con- 
sider how long you have been preparing your- 
self for this step. The trial you speak of must 
be of recent occurrence, therefore not your mo- 
tive in the beginning. A Catholic by baptism, 
and at heart, and only held back by flimsy rea- 
sons, why should you not bring your wounds 
where they can be best healed? Does not a hurt 
child run straight to the arms of its mother? Do 
not the sick resort to a physician ? Does not our 
Lord Himself invite His children who “are 
weary and heavy laden” to come to Him for 
rest and refreshment? Whatever your cross may 
be, my child, bring it to Him: He will help you 
to bear it; never fear that He will turn from you, 
foi His Sacred Heart bore the weight of all 
human grief, and He beholds in the poor human 
heart, bruised with anguish, the image of His 
own, and is touched with an infinite pity that 
straightway seeks to neal its wounds.” 


384 


’bkth’s promise. 


“I will delay no longer. This moment I am 
ready to submit; this moment, Father Thomas, I 
ask to be received into the Church,” said ’Beth, 
kneeling at the good priest’s feet There was no 
nervous emotion, no excitement, either in her 
countenance or manner; her face was calm and 
pale, her eyes grave and earnest, her hands folded 
on her breast in an involuntary attitude of sub- 
mission. 

‘‘God be thanked, my child, for this victory 
over yourself!” said Father Thomas, much af- 
fected, as he blessed her. Then bidding her 
rise, he added: “I will go at once into the 
Church; you will find mein the confessional.” 

And ’Beth Morley took her first step; she en- 
tered the confessional with new emotions, in 
which no feeling or thought of self mingled; and 
grace was given her which made the way plain 
before her. The lions that she had so dreaded in 
the path leading hither shrunk away out of 
sight, and a sweet calm, as refreshing as a 
fountain in the desert, fell with the holy abso- 
lution upon her heart. She remained some 
time in church, offering her thanksgiving be- 
fore the Divine Presence of the Altar and to the 
compassionate Virgin of virgins whose inter- 
cession, she loved to think, had guided and 
obtained this grace for her. Not yet, but soon, 
on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, she 
was to receive Holy Communion. ’Beth had 
no ecstatic emotions, such as she had dieamcd 


beth’s promise. 


385 


of ; but her heart was softened, and down in its 
very depths she felt satisfied at what she had 
done, and also experienced a thankfulness tem- 
pered, with humility which made her accept wil- 
lingly, and believe fervently, all that the Catho- 
lic Church believes and teaches. She felt that 
now, indeed, she had something to cling to like 
un ‘‘anchor, sure and steadfast,” hope’s own 
symbol. A little while ago, when her mind 
tossed to and fro, revealing her own weakness, 
and she felt all powerless — even when aided by 
pride and a strong will to keep up her courage — 
how darkly the shadows fell around her! But 
now, how different it would be! Now, come what 
might of sorrow or pain, she could go with firm 
trust, as a child to its father, for help and solace. 
And little by little, as the days wore on, a certain 
peace stole into her heart, which made its hidden 
grief more endurable, until she began to hope 
that, after all, the bitterness of it would pass 
away, and resignation take its place. 

On the eve of the Immaculate Conception, 
’Beth went into her mother’s room, and after as- 
certaining that she was not asleep knelt down, 
rested her arms on the side of the low bedstead, 
and leaning over, kissed her. 

“’Beth, my darling, this is very sweet, but 
why are you not in bed? I hope you are not 
feeling unwell?” said Mrs. Morley. 

“No, mamma, I am perfectly well ; but I have 
something to tell you which I had intended to 
13 


386 


’betii’s promise. 


defer until to-morrow morning, something that 
you will be glad to hear. I am at last a Catholic, 
and will make my First Communion to-morrow 
morning. We are now one in Faith, dear 
mamma, and I want your blessing and your for- 
giveness for the faults of my life by which I may 
have pained or distressed you,” she answered, in 
sweet, grave tones. 

‘‘How thankful — oh my God! how thankful! 
Now do I feel that Thou art no longer angry with 
me for my long unfaithfulness, since my child is 
restored to her heritage of Faith which, through 
my fault, she had nearly lost!” raising her eyes 
heavenward, and folding her hands, while an ex- 
pression of almost rapture lit up her face. “Yes, 
my child, I bless you: bless you from the depths 
of my very soul ; and as to forgiveness — it is I 
who should ask yours. You have never pained 
me; you have always been the dearest and best 
of children; dutiful and obedient, my stay and 
my comfort.” 

“Thank you, dear mamma; your words make 
me very happy. It is after midnight, the great 
Festival is already here, and in a few hours we 
shall, kneeling together, receive the Bread of 
Life. Let us rest a little while now, that we 
may rise with the dawn, refreshed and strength- 
ened for the great Feast.” 

“Good night, then, my daughter; this happi- 
ness will be refreshment enough even if no sleep 
comes.” Once more mother and daughter em- 


’bkth’s promise. 


braced each other, and separated with hearts full 
of inexpressible gratitude and peace to await the 
supreme moment when Jesus Christ would give 
them Himself, the pledge of eternal life. 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


38S 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

HOW II FARED WITH ’BETH — NEW TRIALS. 

As Father Thomas had told her, all the dread 
that had filled ’Beth’s mind of being tormented 
by doubts after entering the Church, was only a 
temptation. Now that the final step was taken, 
and poor human reason had submitted its arro- 
gance and its littleness in a docile and humble 
spirit to the divine behests of Faith; now that 
she had received the life-giving Sacraments, and 
with them that solace and help which they alone 
can impart, ’Beth Morley only wondered why 
she had so long kept aloof. ‘ ‘ What a coward I 
have been,” she thought, ‘‘to have allowed such 
flimsy reasons to frighten me! Where are the 
clouds, the uncertainty and regrets I so much 
dreaded? Gone, even as the shadows of night 
before the newly-risen sun. I feel just like a 
long-lost child who has found its mother; like 
one tossed upon the wild seas without rudder or 
compass, who suddenly finds himself in a safe 
port where no tempest can harm him. Ah, how 
patient our dear Ford has been with my foolish- 
ness! And by what strange paths His Blessed 
Mother, to whom I was offered at my birth and 
afterwards in baptism, has led me back to the 


’bkth’s promise. 389 

one true Fold from which I was so far astray! 
My soul is more than satisfied!” 

And so it was, indeed. In becoming a Cath- 
olic, ’Beth had entered a new life, wherein she 
found those divine helps which, if they did not 
remove, gave her renewed strength and patience 
to bear her cross. And none too soon did she 
shelter herself in this safe refuge, this holy place 
of ‘ ‘ sanctuary, ’ ’ in the very bosom of the Church, 
where she would find solace in coming trials; for 
she had yet to bear in the near future a more con- 
suming grief and anxiety that she had ever known. 
Happily and mercifully is the future hidden from 
us! To foresee either a great joy or a great sor- 
row would unfit us in the interval for the duties 
of daily life; for shuddering with affright and 
grief at the approaching tribulation, or intoxi- 
cated with joy and exultation at the coming hap- 
piness, how could we bear the intolerable wait- 
ing for the fulfilment of either? Tet us be 
thankful for the veil that falls between, secure 
in our trust in the all-wise Dispenser of human 
events, who cares for us in weal and woe, and 
leads us through the dark, and through perils 
undreamed of, when all human help fails. 

’ Beth kept her sorrow out of sight, not allow- 
ing even its shadow to fall upon the dear life so 
dependent for its earthly comfort upon her. She 
'was always pleasant and affable to friends and 
acquaintances; and while there was no affecta- 
tion of exuberant spirits, the graceful amenities 


390 


’bkth’s promise. 


of social intercourse suffered nothing at her 
hands. Sometimes Mrs. Morley, who had, ever 
since their return from ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ’ ’ grown keenly 
observant of every change that came into ’Beth’s 
face, noticed a sad introverted look in her eyes, 
and a drooping, weary expression about the lines 
of her mouth, which would disappear the mo- 
ment she was spoken to, or when any sound or 
movement near her awakened her from her brief 
reverie, showing how perpetually she was on 
guard to conceal her heart’s secret. 

Mrs. Morley, we must remember, had only 
surmised what had happened between ’Beth and 
her lover, but the more she thought of the affair, 
the more fully she was convinced of the truth of 
her surmises, and with this certainty arose the 
question: ‘‘Was it not unreasonable to exact 
from my child a promise which has evidently 
destroyed the happiness of her young life, that 
happiness which I only sought to guard against 
the bitter griefs I have myself endured? And 
how sweetly and readily she promised, what I — 
selfishly and maybe weakly — exacted! Then, 
after all, how strangely we went to meet the very 
thing I would, above all others, have tried to 
shun! But how could we know? Had some 
enemy designed the affair, it could not have been 
more fatal to her unsuspecting and pure heart. ’ ’ 
But what could Mrs. Morley do, except to wish 
she had not required that “promise,” which, 
she feared, had brought such unhappiness to 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


39 ^ 


’Beth? She was not even sure of it, but she 
would have been glad had the “promise” never 
been required or made; but in this uncertainty 
what could she do? ’Beth had not given her 
her confidence even when she afforded her the 
opportunity to do so at “Ellerslie,” and she 
would doubtless evade the subject if again spo- 
ken to. Besides, Mrs. Morley not being by any 
means certain that it was as she suspected, if 
’Beth had a secret that her womanly pride or 
delicacy made her wish to conceal, she felt that 
she had not even a mother-right to claim the 
knowledge of it. And so she had to wait, only 
to wait — the hardest thing on earth to do when 
one is filled with care and anxiety about the ter- 
mination of any matter upon which hangs the 
well-being of ourselves or of those near and dear 
to us. ’Beth’s efforts to be cheerful made her 
sad; for under it all she noted the indefinable 
signs of a heart ill at ease. She could do noth- 
ing but offer herself and child anew to the most 
Holy Virgin, and implore her aid and interces- 
sion for a happy termination to an affair which 
had cast a shadow between them, and continued 
to give her great anxiety and unhappiness. 
“Oh, fatal promise!” she often whispered when 
alone, and thinking it over; “would that I could 
undo it! Would that I had never required it! 
I thought it would save her from the blows that 
have fallen upon me; from misery and heart- 
break, and now see what has come of it So 


392 


’bkth’s promise. 


much, dear Lord, for not leaving things in Th;^ 
merciful hands, and taking the future into our 
own ! ’ ’ 

“A charming, agreeable girl,” was the ver- 
dict of society on ’ Beth Morley ; ‘ ‘ one of great ele- 
gance and taste, but almost too much dignity of 
manner for one of her age. However, her beauty 
atones for that; and as the shock of her father’s 
death probably lent this gravity to her charac- 
ter, it is more interesting. She will have lost it 
by the time she makes her debut next winter. ’ ’ 

But there were times when, despite her pray- 
ers, her courage, and her brave effort, ’Beth grew 
sad and sorrowful; when she felt weary and dis- 
couraged; when the woman’s heart within hei 
grew chilled; when thoughts of the sudden and 
untimely frost that had fallen upon and blighted 
her beautiful flowers of hope, and awakened her 
so rudely from her brief, bright dream of love, 
swept over her. ‘‘It is my cross,” she would 
whisper, “and I must bear it to the end. I 
would not have chosen it — oh no! But, dear 
Lord, do Thou help me! I am only human, and 
very weak!” Then she would seek and find re- 
freshment in the Sacraments, and so go back, 
almost solaced, to the stir and duties of her daily 
life. 

She had once or twice promised Mrs. Spencer 
to come to her sometimes “in a quiet way,” and 
one evening a note came from that lady, claim- 
ing her presence the day following. “Nobody 


’beth’s promise. 


393 


is to dine with us/’ wrote Mrs. Spencer, ‘‘ex- 
cept Captain and Mrs. Brandt, and an English 
gentleman, a member of Parliament, I believe, 
who has brought letters of introduction to my 
husband, and had to be invited to dinner. I 
have not seen him, but suppose he is reserved 
and awkward like the rest of his countrymen; 
and he may be as old as the hills, for the Judge 
was in such haste to keep an appointment with 
the President, that I hadn’t time to ask a ques- 
tion about the coming guest. Do not send an 
excuse, as I shall be not only disappointed, but 
very angry with you.” 

“You see, mamma, this would quite break up 
our plans for a quiet evening together,” said 
’Beth, handing the note to her mother. “What 
shall I do?” 

“Go, my dear, by all means; it would not do 
to decline when Mrs. Spencer makes such a 
jioint of your coming. It would seem impolite, 
I think. As to myself, I have letters to write 
that have been hanging over me for weeks, 
which will keep me busy until you get back. ’ ’ 

“I’m very fond of Mrs. Spencer, but I don’t 
feel at all inclined to leave you alone. Hovr- 
ever. I’ll go on one condition, since you wish ii, 
mamma, ’ ’ said ’ Beth. 

“And that?” - questioned Mrs. Morley. 

“And that, dear mamma, is that you will see 
Dr. Miller about those attacks of short breathing 
that you have; I notice them quite often. You 


394 


beth’s promise. 


seem to think they are nothing, and perhaps 
they are not; but I shall be happier when Dr. 
Miller tells me the same thing. Will you see 
him to-morrow?” 

‘‘ Yes, my child, if I get time. I have a great 
many things to attend to to-morrow. The ‘ Lit- 
tle Sisters of the Poor’ have agreed to receive 
old Mrs. Wright, and I shall have to see about 
moving her there, for she’s very infirm, and 
seems to depend upon me so much that I prom- 
ised to go with her and see her comfortably set- 
tled. Then there are several other things that 
will require my personal attention and keep me 
occupied all day. But I will see the Doctor the 
day after, if it will make you happier, my child. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That will depend on what he says, dearest 
mamma. Not that I think you are ill, but I 
fear you are not so well as you ought to be; and 
you are such a busy little mother nowadays that 
you take no thought or care of yourself, so I 
mean to look after you,” said ’Beth, smoothing 
her mother’s hair with gentle, caressing touches, 
then she stooped over and kissed her, and went 
away to answer Mrs. Spencer’s note, accepting 
her invitation to dinner. 

In a rich mourning silk of exquisite fit and 
style, with square corsage filled out with puffs 
of illusion, a black velvet band around her white 
throat from which depended the pearl locket — 
her father’s last gift — a bunch of lilies-of-the- 
valley fastened among the waves of her beauti- 


•beth’s promise. 


395 


fill liair and another at her waist, ’Beth looked 
very lovely. And so thought her friend, Mrs. 
Spencer, who met and embraced her as she en- 
tered the drawing-room, where Captain and 
Mrs. Brandt and Judge Spencer also gave her 
warm greeting, after which she was introduced 
to Mr. Neville, their strange guest. Until 
that moment, ’Beth had forgotten all about 
him, but the impression left upon her mind 
by Mrs. Spencer’s note had been that he was 
an old or middle aged man; the fact that he 
was a member of Parliament, and a friend of 
Judge Spencer’s, having made it seem more 
probable. But so far from this, Mr. Neville was 
a tall, fine-looking man of about thirty, and his 
face was of the best type of Saxon comeliness — • 
strong, intelligent and high-bred. His mannei 
was quiet and a trifie awkward, but his kindly 
eyes and agreeable expression made one sure of 
the nobility of his character. The young Eng- 
lishman, who had from choice spent much of 
his grown-up life in the northern regions of 
Europe, outside and beyond the beaten track of 
tourists, and had only a year before returned 
home on the death of an uncle whose heir he 
was, thought he had never seen so lovely a 
woman as ’Beth Morley; her grace of manner 
and modest self-possession seemed to him the 
perfection of fine breeding and a sweet, womanly 
nature. And after his reserve had thawed a lit- 
tle under the genial influence of his agreeable 


’bkth’s promise. 


39 ^ 

entertainers and their friends, liis conversation 
proved him to be a man of great intellectual 
culture and observation. Captain Brandt, in his 
delight at having ’Beth there, “shining,” as he 
declared, “like a bright particular star,” sur- 
passed himself, and was so absurdly agreeable 
that the evening passed merrily away, and Mr. 
Neville, who had led her out to dinner, found 
himself chatting with her as unreservedly as if 
he had known her for years; and she, later on, 
listened with absorbing interest to certain things 
he was telling her about those far northern lands 
he had visited. 

“I hadn’t an idea he was young, and hand- 
some, and agreeable,” said Mrs. Spencer, in a low 
tone, to Captain Brandt, nodding her head to- 
wards them. ‘ ‘ I declare, I am delighted ! They 
really look as if they were made for each other, 
don’t they. Captain?” 

“Kismet! It’s a match, madam! Weshallhear 
wedding-bells before long, or I’m no prophet! 
Gad! I wish poor Morley could have been spared 
to see her grow to be such a beauty!” he an- 
swered with a grin of delight, as he stuck his 
glasses on his nose to take a nearer survey of 
the unconscious pair. As the Judge and Mrs. 
Brandt were deep in a game of euchre on the 
other side of the fire-place, there was nothing to 
interrupt the confidential conversation which en- 
sued between Mrs. Spencer, and the captain, 
vdio, out of apparent possibilities, evolved a lit- 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


397 


tie plot over the details of which they smiled 
with a look of extreme satisfaction, their glances 
and occasional nods in the direction of ’Beth and 
Mr. Neville plainly indicating the subject that 
interested them, had any one been at leisure to 
observe them. When ’ Beth bade ‘ ‘ Good-night ’ ’ 
and told Mrs. Spencer how much she had en- 
joyed the evening, Mr. Neville inquired “If it 
were permissible for him, a stranger, to ask leave 
of Miss Morley to call upon her!” 

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Spencer, who still held 
’Beth’s hand. 

“Have I your permission to call. Miss Mor- 
ley?” he inquired, as he turned towards her and 
bowed. 

“Mamma and I will be happy to see you, Mr. 
Neville,” she answered in quiet tones, then went 
up stairs to get her wraps. When she came 
down, Mr. Neville was waiting at the bottom of 
the staircase to hand her to the coupe. With a 
quiet ‘ ‘ Thanks ” and “ Good-night, ’ ’ ’ Beth drew 
herself back on the cushions, the door was closed, 
and she was, in another moment, on her way 
home, with no other thought of the handsome 
Englishman in her mind except that ‘ ‘ he had 
been a great traveller, and was very polite.” 
After this followed an episode in ’Beth Morley’ s 
life which was entirely unlooked for, and which 
pained her gentle, generous nature not a little. 
Mr. Neville called with Mrs. Spencer thefollow- 
i iig day, and was introduced to Mrs. Morley, on 


’brtii’s promise. 


398 

whom lie evidently made an agreeable impres« 
sion, and was invited by her to repeat his visit. 
’Beth gave him quiet welcome, but exchanged 
only a few words with him, devoting herself to 
Mrs. Spencer, who was giving her glowing ac- 
counts of a foreign prima donna^ whom, she had 
just heard, was engaged for the week following 
to sing in opera at Ford’s Theatre. 

“I shall make the Judge engage a box for the 
whole time, and I shall expect you to go with 
me every evening, ’Beth,” she said, as she got 
up to leave. 

’Beth laughed and said: “Music is always a 
great temptation to me, but I cannot promise. 
Thank you all the same, though.” 

“I shall come and carry you off bodily, so it 
will be best for you to yield with a good grace; 
so make your toilette regularly for the occasion. 
It’s delightful here, but I shall have to hurry Mr. 
Neville off, to show him the lions of the Senate 
and House, who, by the time we get to the Capi- 
tol, will be roaring and shaking their manes at 
each other. Good-bye, darling. Don’t discourage 
her by a word, Anne, about the opera, ’ ’ said Mrs. 
vSpencer, as she gave Mrs. Morley a good-bye 
kiss. 

Mr. Neville availed himself of the invitation 
Mrs, Morley had given him to “call again.” He 
came once or twice with Mrs. Spencer; then, feel- 
ing better acquainted, and always welcome, his 
visits became more frequent, and were made 


’betii's promise. 


399 


aiOTie. A cluster of lilies-of-tlie-valley was left 
foi Miss Morle} every day, and he quite fre- 
quently now brought “rare sweet violets,” diffi- 
cult to find just at this season, which he simply 
offered, and she as simply accepted. 

Meantime Mrs. Morley had consulted Dr. Mil- 
ler, and ’Beth’s mind was set at rest about her 
mother’s health. “There’s a little functional 
trouble, that’s all,” the Doctor had told ’Beth; 
“her nerves have not recovered from the shock 
of three years ago, and she must be careful not 
to overtax them, my child. I have told her all 
about it, and given her remedies which wull re- 
lieve her, with care and a due amount of rest.” 

“Oh, Doctor, what you say is such a relief! I 
am so thankful! I was afraid mamma had heart- 
disease,” said ’Beth, while tears of relief filled 
her eyes. 

“Your mother’ll live to be an old woman, my 
dear; but she must be careful, or with those 
nerves of hers, she may be a very suffering one,” 
he said, standing a moment at the hall door. 

‘ ‘ She shall be careful, if I have to keep her in 
a cage like a delicate canary,” answered the girl, 
with something of her old glad spirit in her 
tones. The Doctor laughed, and hurried away 
to a consultation, whose verdict would be life or 
deal h to the suffering patient. 

Aunt ’Beth, far away at old “Ellerslie,” had 
so missed them that, to satisfy the hunger of her 
heart, she had taken to writing long letters, 


4-00 


beth’s promise. 


of the tilings she had hated to do all her life. 
But it was a solace now for her to sit down and 
make her pen talk for her; it relieved her loneli- 
ness, and she could say all that was in her mind 
without being interrupted or argued with, wh ch 
to one of her positive temper, was — as she con- 
fessed — a great satisfaction. And as she received 
two letters a week, one from Mrs. Morley and a 
long cheerful one from ’Beth, her mind, what 
with her correspondence and other duties, was 
very agreeably occupied. The ‘‘strike” had 
ended in December, to her great joy and relief, 
and the Dulaneys had come back to spend Christ- 
mas at “ Tracy-Holme, ” where, with Paul and 
his young wife, Violet, and a party of friends 
from New York, they had a gay time. “ ‘Ellers- 
lie ’ gave a dinner,” Aunt ’Beth wrote, “and we 
had a grand old-fashioned time, with wood fires 
blazing, plenty of egg-nog, holly wreathes and 
mistletoe, the ‘fatted calf’ — although there was 
no prodigal to partake of it — roast turkey, and 
every other thing that was ever thought of for 
Christmas feasting. I only wanted you two to 
make the feast a festival!” The next astonish- 
ing piece of news Aunt ’Beth’s letters brought 
was that, in the spring, Lodo was to be married 
to a young farmer she had met at the hop-pick- 
ing, and they were going out to settle in the far 
West, she believed, on some uncleared land he 
had bought — a very wilderness, which Lodo 
thought would be a new paradise to her, where 


’beth’s promise. 401 

she could live, work, and sleep in the open air, 
under the trees, if so minded; giving herself no 
uneasiness about Indians, or scalping-knives, or 
wild beasts. The next letter came to ’Beth, tell- 
ing her that the Dulaneys had taken their second 
flight back to the city, and things had fallen 
again into their usual winter quiet. “They gave 
me, before they went,” she continued, “a flne 
photograph of my favorite Bertie, which you 
will find in the enclosed envelope. I thought 
you might like to see it, knowing what friends 
you were last summer. ’ ’ 

’Beth hesitated about looking at it. “What 
harm can it do ? my looking at it can alter noth- 
ing,” she argued; then she opened the envelope 
and took it out. It was, indeed, a faithful like- 
ness — true to the life, only there was a sterner 
expression on his countenance than she remem- 
bered ever to have seen there, and he was in full 
uniform. She did not trust herself to look at it 
twice, but handed it with the letter to her 
mother. She sat up late that night to write to 
Aunt ’Beth, and returned the photograph with 
the simple remark that, “It was excellent, and 
they were glad to see that Lieut. Dulaney was 
looking so well.” 

“If she would only open her heart to me!” 
thought Mrs. Morley, when she noted the sad 
far-away look iii ’Beth’s eyes, as she sat with her 
fair, long hands clasped about her knees, gazing 
out into the dim, wintry twilight. “If I could 
13* 


402 ’BETH’S PROMISE. 

only know wliat slie is thinking of this very mo- 
ment, how quickly all might be remedied, ii 
things are as I suspect! But, hoping to spare 
me, she will never admit it, or break that prom- 
ise which I so unwisely required, even if my 
supposition is true.” 

’Beth had not referred to the picture except to 
say that she had written to Aunt ’Beth and re- 
turned it. The sight of it had revived memories 
and regrets which had been slumbering and, she 
nad hoped, overcome ; but she sought her usual 
strong help in the Sacraments, and took up her 
cross anew, looking forward with hope into the 
future. She had enough to do; Father Thomas, 
who necessarily had much suffering brought to 
his notice, had recommended several worthy and 
extreme cases of want to Mrs. Morley’s benevo- 
lent attention, which she undertook to provide 
for with ’Beth’s willing assistance. The sight 
of sufferings greater than our own is a whole- 
some panacea, which, if it does not heal, pre- 
vents our brooding and pining over them; while 
the very effort to relieve and solace those to whom 
destitution, sickness and grief have brought 
almost despair, is in itself a sacred balm for out 
sore, weary hearts. Nothing was allowed to in- 
terfere with the time apportioned to the duties 
of charity and the works of mercy which they 
had assumed ; they were either not at home lit- 
eral ly, or if they were, too much engaged to see 
company if visitors called; and Mrs. Spencer not 


’bkth’s promise. 


403 


iinfrequently missed seeing both Mrs. Morley and 
’Beth, when she had come full of the world’s 
news, and almost beside herself with delight at 
the success her cherished plan seemed to prom- 
ise, and to which her fine tact told her it would 
be impolitic to refer at present. For Mr. Neville 
had made her his confidant, and continued his 
attentions to ’ Beth, who neither repulsed nor en- 
couraged them, but always received him in a 
friendly way, partly because he was Mrs. Spen- 
cer’s friend and because she really liked him and 
found his conversation agreeable and full of in- 
formation. Meantime society had made a lion 
of Mr. Neville; he was invited, courted and 
feted with the most distinguished attention; but 
Mr. Neville was not fondi^of this sort of thing, 
and responded to it all only so far as absolute 
politeness required. The beauty of American 
girls would have fascinated and lured him into 
the very whirl of the season, had he not seen 
one — ’ Beth Morley — who far surpassed his ideal 
and whom he meant to win if possible; and it 
leaked out through Mrs. Spencer or Captain 
Brandt that the handsome Englishman was al- 
-eady very much in love with a young lady 
whom he had met in Washington, nobody could 
tell where, and her name was vainly guessed at, 
which made the report more piquant and mys- 
terious, while some few believed it, and others 
discredited it entirely. 

One day Mr. Neville called at Mrs. Morley’s 


404 


’beth's promise. 


and on learning that ’Beth was out, sent up his 
card to her mother, asking to see her for a few 
minutes. She came down at once, receiving 
him in her usual friendly way, and, drawing hei 
chair near his, began to talk of things which she 
thought would be of interest to him. But in- 
stead of pursuing the conversation, he somewhat 
abruptly told her, as soon as she had finished 
what she was saying, that he had called to see 
her on a matter which affected his happiness, 
and hoped she would not be displeased at his 
presumption, but give him, if possible, some 
small encouragement and hope. Mrs. Morley 
did not quite understand, and, drawing herself 
up, waited to hear what more he had to say. 
He did not want her to answer him then; he 
wanted — like a true Briton — to go through with 
what brought him there; and this he proceeded 
to do, with an awkward floundering of words and 
disconnected phrases, which, however, verged 
intelligibly enough, by the time he finished, to 
a perfect understanding of his purpose, which 
was nothing more nor less than a formal proposal 
for Beth’s hand. Mrs. Morley was taken by sur- 
prise, and scarcely knew for an instant what 
answer to make. She had heard from the Spen- 
cers that he was a man of high birth and large 
fortune, that he belonged to an old Catholic 
family who had been true to their Faith for 
many generations, and that his record was an 
extraordinarily fine one; but she could say noth- 


’bkth’s promise. 


405 


ing, except to refer him to her daughter for his 
answer. She asked him if he had spoken to 
her, and he replied that he had not, he only 
waited her permission to do so, but now there 
was nothing to prevent his learning his fate from 
her own lips; not that he presumed to hope for 
a favorable answer to his suit, but he could not 
brook uncertainty. He would call in the even- 
ing, if she thought he could see Miss Morley. 
Mrs. Morley told him that her daughter would 
be at home, and he bowed and went away, while 
she sat there, thinking it all over, with a sink- 
ing heart. ‘‘Suppose,” she queried, “’Beth 
should like him ? Well, if so, I will lay no im- 
pediment in their way, although I know how 
bitter the trial will be when the ocean separates 
me from my child, my only one.” She deter- 
mined to say nothing of Mr. Neville’s visit, so 
that ’Beth might be left to act exactly on her 
own impulses and judgment. He had confided 
his intentions to Mrs. Spencer before he left her 
that morning, and she had gone off to make 
some calls, radiant with exultation and delight 
that her favorite should have won the greatest 
prize that had ever been in the matrimonial 
market in Washington — making not the least 
doubt of ’Beth’s accepting him, for it was such 
a fitting, indeed, such a splendid match. She 
couldn’t tell all she knew about him. yet, but 
w^as delighted to think, when she had his per- 
njission to do so, what an immense sensation it 


4o6 ’beth’s promise. 

would create. There was just enough known 
and guessed at to form the theme for every 
drawing-room and. no end of talk at the clubs; 
it was hinted at in the papers that there was aip 
engagement on the tapis — not yet formally an- 
nounced — that would produce a profound sensa- 
tion in the most brilliant circles when known. 
Unconscious of it all, ’Beth only wished Mr. 
Neville would not call quite so often; for, al- 
though she liked him as a friend, there had come 
into his manner towards her an empressement 
which sometimes startled and made her uncom- 
fortable; and when he called that evening after 
the interview between himself and Mrs. Morley, 
and declared his love, offering himself, his 
honors and possessions for her acceptance, she 
rejected him in as kind and decided a way as 
possible, expressing her sense of the compliment 
he had paid her and her grief at having unin- 
tentionally been the cause of pain and disap- 
pointment to him ; how much, he did not seek 
to conceal. All his pleading was in vain; hei 
decision was final, as she made him understand; 
then without another word, he bowed and left 
the house, and that night went away in the lo 
o’clock northern train. Mrs. Spencer received 
a note of farewell by mail the next morning, in 
which he referred to his “ill success” as the 
cause of his sudden departure, thanked her for 
her great kindness, and told her that he intended 
to take up his old vagabond life again, and lose 


’bkth’s promise. 


407 


himself in Persia for the next few years. Mrs. 
Spencer was disappointed and furious. She 
ordered her carriage and went to Mrs. Morley’s, 
where she met ’Beth in the hall just on her way 
out. 

“No: I won’t sit down, Miss Morley; I should 
stay too long and say too much, and maybe tear 
you to pieces, Pm so angry with you. I know 
all about it, and I do declare that you are the 
most foolish girl I ever heard of in my life, to 
have rejected such a man, who, I tell you for 
your comfort, is not only a Neville, but the Earl 
of Kintore, the greatest match in England! — and 
you deserve to die an old maid for recklessly 
throwing away such a splendid opportiinity. ’ ’ 

All of which ’ Beth endured with great sweet- 
ness, but made at the same time a good plea for 
herself, in which Mrs. Spencer pretended to see 
no sense or reason, although in her heart she 
did, and so they parted — ’ Beth well satisfied that 
her mother fully approved her decision; Mrs. 
Spencer declaring that she did not want to see 
her again for a whole month, by which time she 
might possibly have recovered her temper, and 
hurried away without offering her the usual part- 
ing embrace and kiss. She found Captain Brandt 
waiting for her when she got home. He had 
called to see Mr. Neville that morning, and was 
told that he had left the city and was not ex- 
pected to return. The hotel people could tell 
him nothing, except that he was gone, and^ex- 


4>8 


’beth’s promise. 


pected to sail for England by the first steamer 
that left New York after he got there; and he 
rushed up to confer with Mrs. Spencer, who, he 
was sure, must know the reason of Neville’s sud- 
den departure. He was told at the door that 
Madame — as her foreign servant styled her — was 
out; but instead of leaving his card, he answered 
that he would come in and wait her return, which 
he did. The servant knowing that the old Cap- 
tain was an intimate friend of the family, invited 
him into “Madame’s boudoir,” where there were 
reviews, magazines, books, and the morning 
papers, which the man naturally thought would 
interest him until Madame returned. But he did 
not care to be amused, he was in too great a 
fume; and when Mrs. Spencer got home, she 
found him in her sanctum in a state very much 
resembling that of a caged bear at the Zoo. He 
shook hands, and asked her what was in the 
wind, and what had sent Neville off on such a 
tangent as if he had been shot out of a mortar? 
Then he wiped his face as if he were swabbing a 
quarter-deck, and dropped into a chair to hear 
all about the ending of his ambitious hopes foi 
’Beth Morley, whom he loved and was as proud 
of as if she had been his own child. He had set 
his heart upon this brilliant match for her, never 
dreaming that she would decline it; and when he 
heard that Neville had really proposed and been 
refused, he quite lost his head and swore like 
*‘the army in Flanders,” until the air got blue, 


’beth’s promise 


409 


and lie was brought to his senses by seeing Mis 
Spencer leaning back against the cushions of her 
chair with a finger stuffed in each ear. He suc- 
denly stopped, put his finger on his lips, where- 
upon she uncovered her ears, and he begged par- 
don, bowed, and went home to drown his anger 
and disappointment in unlimited punch, leaving 
Mrs. Spencer convinced and more than ever tak- 
ing to heart the fact that 

‘‘The best laid plans of men and mice 
Aft gang aglee.” 

But she was wicked enough the next time they 
met, when he apologized for swearing in her 
presence, to courtesy and tell him she quite 
thanked him for it, as it had relieved her mind 
as much as if she had done it herself. ‘‘Not that 
I wish to encourage you in such a bad habit. 
Captain, and you must never do so in my pres- 
ence again; but the provocation was great, and a 
safety-valve of some sort was necessary. It’s not 
likely that such an occasion will ever happen 
again. How are the Morleys ?’ ’ 

“I called this morning,” said the old salt, 
after a hearty laugh, and promising by the lights 
of St. Elmo never to offend again; “I called, but 
saw no one. Andy told me that Mrs. Morley 
had caught cold, and had had a chill; I hope it’s 
nothing serious.” 

‘ I shall call to-day and inquire, and if it’s 
nothing serious, I shall take ’Beth with me ti. 


410 


’beth’s promise. 


the opera to-night,” said Mrs. Spencer, with a 
look of concern on her handsome countenance 
Mrs. Morley’s indisposition did not appear tg 
threaten anything more grave than a few days’ 
confinement to her bed; the chills had yielded 
to quinine, her cold was better, and she com- 
plained only of great lassitude and occasional 
faintness. Dr. Miller thought she would be up 
very soon. That is what Mrs. Spencer heard 
from ’Beth when she called to make inquiries; 
but, notwithstanding, she could not persuade 
her to leave her mother to go with her to the 
opera. know that she will not really need 
me, but I would not feel easy to leave her, even 
in faithful old nurse’s care,” ’Beth answered, 
and Mrs. Spencer, knowing something by this 
time of her firm will, ceased to importune her, 
offered her services if there were anything she 
could do, sent best love to the patient, kissed 
her with her old affection, and went away. 
’Beth noticed that it was snowing very fast 
when Mrs. Spencer went out to her carriage, 
and by dusk the storm had blocked up the side- 
walks with drifts, and the wind, piercingly cold, 
blew with such violence that bricks were hurled 
from chimneys, slates from roofs, and the win- 
dows were lashed and shaken as if the ‘ ‘ Prince 
of the power of the air” were holding high car- 
nival, and meant destruction. In Mrs. Morley’s 
room the heavy curtains were down, and a 
bright, crackling wood fire blazed upon the 


’beth’s promise. 


411 


hearth, where the tall brass andirons supporting 
it glittered and reflected the quivering flames 
and restless sparks. An old-fashioned astral 
lamp cast a restful light over the table where 
’Beth sat reading aloud, and made Mrs. Morley’s 
pale, finely-chiselled face, which leaned against 
her pillows, as statuesque as classic marble. 

‘‘How folded in one feels in such a storm, 
mamma! It gives one such a feeling of home, 
of safety, to hear it, and know that it cannot 
reach us, rage as it may. ’ ’ 

“Yes, but thoughts of the shivering poor, of 
wandering outcasts without home or shelter, will 
come to pain us amid our luxurious surround- 
ings; and our powerlessness to help them only 
increases our sharp regret.” 

“You have done all you could, dear mamma, 
to give warmth and comfort to the needy, I am 
sure. Think of those who are this moment en- 
joying the coal, wood, food, and other good 
things that you provided for them; the shelter, 
the warm clothing, and, in many cases, the 
steady employment secured for them by your 
means,” said ’Beth, in cheerful tones. 

“And you, my right-hand helper always,” said 
Mrs. Morley. Then she closed her eyes, and 
’Beth, thinking she had fallen asleep, read on, 
while the storm still raged with wilder fury. 
The little French clock on the mantelpiece rung 
out 12 in musical tones too sweet and low to dis- 
tui'b the s'’eeper. ’Beth closed the book, lowered 


’beth’s promise. 


412 

the light, and sat there gazing into the coals, not 
building ‘‘castles in Spain,’’ but thinking of the 
fair “castles in the air” that in her own life had 
crumbled and disappeared. She could not help 
it, she would have been more than human if she 
had. Such thoughts always came unbidden, and 
she could not drive them away. She sought 
refuge in her rosary sometimes, and presently she 
drew her chaplet from her pocket and tried to fix 
her mind on the wonderful mysteries that devo- 
tion presents to the devout soul. After a little 
while the shadow passed from her heart, and 
peace came in the contemplation of the fathom- 
less mystery of the life of Mary, the predestined, 
the honored above all creatures, the sinless Vir- 
gin Mother. 

Mrs. Morley stirred; a log had broken in two 
with a fusilade of glittering sparks that swept 
into the chimney’s black depths like a pillar of 
fire, and shed a ruddy glow over every part of the 
room. In a moment ’Beth was at her mother’s 
bedside. 

“Did the fire awaken you, dear mamma? ” 

“I have not been asleep, my ’Beth; I have 
been thinking. I have something to say to you 
that I have long been wishing to say; sit down 
here by me.” 

“Had you not better defer it until to-morrow, 
and try to get asleep, mamma?” 

“I shall sleep better after it is said, m}^ child.” 

“Well, mamma, what is it?” said ’Beth, with 


’bkth’s promise. 413 

failing heart. Was her mother going to rerjiire 
her to give up her secret? 

‘‘Do you remember, my ’Beth, a promise that 
I once exacted from you?- -a promise which I 
meant to be a safeguard to your happiness, and 
which — unwise, though I now think it — was sug- 
gested by my love, my deep mother-love for you, 
to keep from your heart the pangs that have 
wrung mine? You cheerfully promised what I 
asked, and called God to witness that you would 
keep that promise. Nv my ’Beth, I call upon 
God to witness that I release you from your 
promise, willingly, voluntarily, assured in my 
own mind that I had no right to fetter your life 
with it. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, mamma; but I shall never do anything 
that will grieve or make you anxious,” said 
’Beth, in a low tone. 

“But you accept this release? Let that prom- 
ise be, in the name of God, as though it had . 
never been. Do you agree?” 

“If you wish it, dearest mamma. I was satis- 
fied to have it stand. ’ ’ 

“I was not. Now kiss me, my darling, for I 
shall go to sleep at once, I feel so happy.” 

“Dear mamma, how sorry I am that you have 
given yourself so many uneasy moments about 
that promise!” said ’Beth, kissing her tenderly, 
and drawing the soft downy coverlid up around 
her shoulders, while a strange tumult of mingled 
emotions stirred her own inmost heart. With a 


414 


’bkth’s promise. 


sweet smile, restful and calm upon her face, Mrs. 
Morley soon fell asleep, holding ’Beth’s hand 
close to her heart. Happy for both that this 
conversation took place then and there, for when 
the doctor called next day at the usual hour, he 
perceived a very serious change in the condition 
of his patient, A low fever was creeping through 
her blood, her pulse was rapid and weak, and she 
lay in a half-dreamy state between sleeping and 
waking, from which she aroused only when 
spoken to. Dr. Miller pronounced it typhoid 
fever, but would give no opinion, except that she 
was very ill, as indeed she was. Every day she 
seemed to drift nearer and nearer towards the 
valley of the shadow of death, making no sign, 
so deep was the silence and unconsciousness that 
enwrapt her senses. Father Thomas, who nevei 
omitted a special remembrance of her in his 
Masses, came daily to breathe a silent prayer be- 
side her, to give her his blessing, and lead ’Beth 
aside to whisper courage and hope. Two Sisters 
of Charity had leave from their Superior, at 
Father Thomas’s request, to be in attendance, 
and took turns in watching through the long 
winter nights, and nursing her through the 
weary days with tender and assiduous care. 
Doctor Miller gave his most vigilant attention to 
the case, and said: “With such skilful aids as 
the good Sisters, I hope much. ’ ’ He candidly 
admitted that while medical skill was of small 
avail^ such nursing as theirs was not only inval- 


’bkth’s promise. 


415 


liable, but more thau half the battle. The good 
doctor took no account of the earnest prayers 
that besieged Heaven in behalf of his patient; 
in fact, it was his custom to refer all difficult 
cases that passed his skill to nature, having small 
knowledge of the great Healer who can recreate 
and rehabilitate the work of His own hands. 
’Beth could not be persuaded to leave her mother 
a moment, except when in the gray morning 
dawn she stole out with Sister Teresa to the 
nearest church, to offer, with the Divine Sacri- 
fice of the altar, her Communion and ardent 
prayers for her recovery. One morning as they 
drew near the church the good Sister said, in 
low, gentle tones: “Remember, dear child, that 
our prayers, to be efficacious, must be referred 
entirely to the holy will of God. ’ ’ 

“I only ask, like a child, for what I want 
above all earthly things, my mother’s recovery. 
When our Lord was upon earth, raising the 
dead and healing the sick, that is the way they 
begged His help, and He granted their prayers 
without question, rebuke, or condition. When 
I see and know His holy will, I will try, al- 
though it slay me, to submit.” 

This was a great deal for ’Beth to say, who 
now spoke \>vt seldom. She had been turning 
this question over in her own mind ever since 
her mother’s illness began, and this was the con- 
clusion she had arrived at. It seemed to hei 
only right to ask the Father, in the Son’s holy 


4i6 


’bkth’s promise. 


name, for the help her stricken heart needed, 
even as He had commanded, with the promise 
that it should be given. How could she doubt ' 
Sister Teresa only said in her low, gentle tones: 
“I will offer my Holy Communion for your in- 
tention, dear child;” and they entered the 
dimly-lighted church, where the sanctuary-lamp 
and two candles upon the altar scarcely revealed 
the holy place, entered with fervent hearts, 
knowing whom they had come to adore and 
meet, and at whose feet they would kneel, and 
in whose promises they would ever trust, while 
He bestowed Himself upon them, their food and 
‘their guest. 

The Brandts and Mrs. Spencer came to the 
house daily, anxious to be of service and to re- 
lieve ’Beth, but she could not be induced to go 
into another room^ to lie down and rest, or drive 
out for a breath of fresh air. ‘ ‘ She might not 
be here when I come back — I can’t leave her!” 
she said piteously to Father Thomas, and they 
urged her no more. She ate and drank mechan- 
ically what was brought to her, knowing that 
without it she would grow weak and be obliged 
to leave her post; and the only sleep she got was 
when sitting close to her mother’s bedside, she 
leaned her head against it, and lost herself for a 
little while. At last hope died out. Dr. Miller 
told Father Thomas that there was not the least 
chance of his patient’s recovery, unless some 
latent power of nature, which he could not per- 


’bkth’s promise. 


417 


ceive and did not hope for, should rally. Then 
Father Thomas, with a full heart, led ’Beth into 
another room, and told her that he thought it 
better to administer Extreme Unction to Mrs. 
Morley. 

“Oh, Father Thomas! is the end so near as 
that?” she asked, her pale face wrung with an- 
guish. 

“My dear child, while there’s life there’s hope, 
and our dear sufferer must have every help, di- 
vine as well as human, that the Church provides 
for her children. I don’t say it will be so in her 
case — but I have known some to recover after the 
holy anointing, who had every appearance of 
being in their last extremity.” 

“Oh yes — at once. Father, give her this help; 
I expect nothing humanly from it, but it will be 
a comfort to think — oh! Father Thomas, must 
my dear mother die?” 

It was too much; the cold, white endurance of 
the last six weeks gave way to a passion of tears 
and convulsive sobs that shook every nerve and 
fibre of her delicate frame. Father Thomas, 
deeply moved by her grief, did not seek to check 
it by cold counsels and formal lessons of resigna- 
tion; he knew that nature must have way, and 
he waited, holding her cold hand in his, while he 
secretly besought the infinite compassion of the 
Sacred Heart of Jesus for her in this hour of dis- 
tress. When she grew more calm, the good priest 
led her back to the sick room where he was to 
14 


’beth’s pfomisp:. 


418 

adniinister to tlie dying one the august Sacra- 
ment which prepares the soul for its last passage 
and the new raiment awaiting it in its Father’s 
house. The two Sisters, with ’Beth, assisted at 
the solemn function, and when it was all over, 
she stood gazing down into the white wasted 
face, the half-open, expressionless eyes, and the 
pale lips on which the breath of life faintly 
trembled. 

“Is my mother dying. Sister Joseph?” she sud- 
denly asked. 

“Not dying, dear, but entering eternal life,” 
said the Sister, whose eyes were dim with 
tears. 

’Beth fell to the floor in a dead faint and was 
borne away to another apartment, where, before 
she entirely recovered from her swoon. Dr. Mil- 
ler administered an opiate which threw her into 
a profound sleep. When she awoke, she knew 
that hours must have passed since she saw her 
mother. Why was she there in the dark? What 
had happened? Then she remembered. Was all 
over? Had her mother died, and she not there? 
The door opened and Sister Teresa came in, 
holding a small night-lamp in her hand. As she 
closed the door after her, ’Beth sprang from her 
bed and, with a trembling voice, cried out: “Is 
my mother dead?” 

“No, dear child; do not cry out, or make the 
least sound, and I will tell you. A change has 
taken place: the doctor says she will live, but 


’beth’s promise. 


419 

there must be extreme quiet. Agitation of any 
kind would be fatal. Soon after you fainted, she 
closed her eyes, and I thought it was all over; but 
in a few seconds she opened them, and looked at 
tJie doctor and Father Thomas with a faint smile, 
as if glad to see them. She was perfectly con- 
scious and took the nourishment I brought her, 
then fell into a sweet natural sleep. Dr. Miller 
is down stairs with Father Thomas; they are 
both going to stay until morning. ’ ’ 

“Oh my God! my God! I thank Thee!” cried 
’ Beth, flinging herself upon her knees by the bed- 
side and covering her face with her hands, while 
she poured out all the joy and gratitude of her 
soul — not in words, for words had no power to ex- 
press it, but in that language of silent, speechless 
adoration that is best loved by heaven. 


420 


’BKTII'S TROMISR. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

niE KVK OF ST. MICHAET THE ARCHANGEE. 

Mrs. Moreey came slowly back to life and 
health, steadily improving until at last, when 
spring began to swell the tree-buds, and the red 
sap of the maples made the delicate shoots look 
like branches of coral — when an indescribable 
fragrance stole into the air, and the birds grew 
busy — when the sun shone upon the earth with 
a caressing warmth that tempered the cool crisp 
winds — she was pronounced by Dr. Miller to be 
entirely recovered, with a promise of better 
health than she had known for years. It is easy 
to imagine ’Beth’s heartfelt thankfulness and 
tender devotion during the long, anxious period 
of her mother’s convalescence, the tireless atten- 
tion of friends, and the high festival that was 
made of her first coming down stairs to take tea 
with Father Thomas and the Brandts — flowers 
everywhere, and ’Beth, radiant with happiness, 
flitting like a delighted butterfly around them all, 
her laugh once more ringing with its old merry 
tones, as Father Thomas and Captain Brandt 
teased her, and got the worst of it for their pains. 
Why was ’Beth so happy? Had anything hap- 
pened beyond her mother’s recovery to make her 


’beth’s promise. 


421 


so? Had she fulfilled the promise she made long 
ago to Bertie Dulaney, to let him know that the 
obstacle to their engagement no longer existed, 
and was everything satisfactorily settled between 
them? No; she had been too much absorbed in 
anxious care for her mother, in watching and 
tending her through the slow stages of her re- 
covery, to give more than a passing thought to 
herself. Her mother had been given back to her 
almost from the dead, and a joyous sense of 
thankfulness pervaded her heart for a season, to 
the exclusion of every other consideration. But 
under all, there sometimes stirred a memory very 
like a sweet chord of music, reminding her that 
she was absolved from the promise which had 
caused her so much unhappiness — that she was 
free! But she had not written to Bertie Dulaney 
to tell him so, nor had she, since that conversa- 
tion with her mother, when she released her from 
her promise and made her accept her release, 
ever referred to it: “For,’’ as she argued in her 
own mind, “releasing me from that promise 
would not lessen my mother’s anxieties, and the 
haunting apprehensions of evil to come, should 
I marry Bertie — my poor Bertie! She read, 
somehow, the secret I would never have be- 
trayed, and has sacrificed herself for my happi- 
ness. 1 will wait; I must be sure of everything 
before I take any step; and how do I know but 
that, tired of waiting, and angry at my silence, 
he has not made another choice! But no: I do 


422 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


not believe that; he is too true. I must wait; 
perhaps mamma will speak again, then I will 
throw aside all reserve, and talk it over with 
her. ’ ’ But Mrs. Morley made no allusion what- 
ever to the subject: knowing that she had posi- 
tively and entirely released ’Beth from her 
promise, and seeing her quite cheerful and like 
her old self, she felt satisfied that everything had 
been, or would soon be, happily adjusted. It 
was a great relief to her mind to know that the 
obstacle, which in a moment of gloom and ap- 
prehension she had placed in the way of her 
child’s happiness, was removed. She had made 
the only reparation possible, and knew that ’ Beth 
now held the final issue in her own hands and at 
her own will. 

Short pleasant drives, when the soft spring air 
was sweetened with acacia blossoms, violets, and 
lilacs, brought back the hue of health to her 
face; and one fair lovely morning, she and ’Beth 
had the supreme happiness of making their 
thank-offerings together at early Mass in the old 
church on F street, receiving with renewed 
fervor the Most Adorable Sacrament of the Altar, 
which, through the dark days of their recent 
suffering, had given them courage, hope and 
strength to endure in His holy name and for His 
dear sake. By-and-by she was strong enough to 
visit the spot so sacred to her affections under the 
old oaks on Georgetown Heights, and, to her 
surprise and gratification, found that the monu* 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


423 


ment ordered long before her illness, had been 
finished and put in place. It was chaste and 
elegant in design. She had put aside broken 
columns and other symbolic fancies when 
brought to her, and had chosen a pedestal and 
massive shaft of polished Scotch granite crowned 
with a cross, and at the foot of the cross, as if 
carelessly thrown around it, a carven laurel 
wreath. Cut into the stone were his name, rank, 
the date of his death, and this inscription: 
“Faithful to the end; he gloried only in the 
loyal performance of duty, and for this he gave 
up his life. May he rest in peace!” That was 
all. She remembered how he hated the sort of 
fame often carved in marble, and had heard him 
say: “If I am worth remembering, I shall be re- 
membered. If I do my country good service, 
my fame will be graven on its records. ’ ’ And 
she had followed out what she thought her hero 
would have best liked. And while ’Beth strewed 
flowers upon his grave, old Andy’s faithful heart 
was satisfied and consoled, and filled with un- 
bounded pride, by the costly memorial that 
marked the spot: “For somehow. Missis, it do 
mind me of him, so straight and tall, and noble 
lookin’,” he said; and from that hour it became 
to him the very impersonation of his dead master, 
a something that was tangible, that could be seen 
and touched and reverenced. Andy still clung 
to the traditions of his fathers, and their wild 
mysterious tales of Obi and Voudoo; hence it is 


424 


bkth’s promisk. 


not strange that his superstition should have 
conjured a living presence there. 

Two years passed by with but few changes. 
A part of one summer had been spent near the 
sea with great benefit to Mrs. Morley and ’Beth; 
September and October found them at “Ellers- 
lie” with Aunt ’Beth, and in the early summer 
of the following year they again revisited the old 
home, intending to spend the autumn at ‘ ‘ Hay- 
fields,” the estate among the Berkshire hills be- 
queathed by the Princess Sforza-Piccolomini, nee 
Hamilton, to Mrs. Morley, at which time ar- 
rangements would be nearly completed for the 
noble and benevolent purpose to which the lat- 
ter had determined, with the approval of the 
Bishop of Boston, to consecrate it. 

Mr. and Mrs. Dulaney came earlier than usual 
this year to “ Tracy-Holme, ” accompanied by 
Paul and Elaine and their little six-months-old 
baby Bertie, who was throned and worshipped in 
their hearts, where he reigned king with none 
to dispute his sovereignty; for, from grandfather 
down, it was the firm belief of the family that 
such a child had never been born. The little 
congregation of St. Joseph’s had so increased in 
numbers, owing to another manufacturing estab- 
lishment which had been erected near by — where 
hundreds of persons, men, women and children, 
were employed, many of whom were Catholic — 
that the services of a regular pastor were abso- 


^BETH’S PROMISE. 


425 


h^.tely required; and on Mr. Dulaney’s represen- 
tation of the case to the Archbishop of New 
York, he readily consented to give them a :esi- 
dent priest, and that priest, to every one’s joy, 
was Father Hagner, who came and lost no time 
in organizing the affairs of his mission. He 
opened a Sunday-school in which the Dulaneys 
and Morleys had classes, and also a night-school 
for boys and men whieh was well attended. A 
neat cottage was erected near the chapel for the 
good pastor, furnished with every needed com- 
fort by Mr. and Mrs. Dulaney, who generously 
settled an annuity on him. A well built and 
more direct road was opened through the 
grounds to the chapel for the accommodation of 
the people, who gratefully availed themselves of 
the favors so generously bestowed upon them. 
The hospitalities of ‘ ‘ Tracy-Holme ” were still 
continued to invalid clergymen during the sum- 
mer months, the entertaining of them being a 
privilege and happiness which these pious people 
would not have willingly relinquished. 

Father Thomas, invited by Aunt ’Beth, spent 
his vacation at ‘‘Ellerslie,” and was so delighted 
with the two old homes and their inmates, that 
he declared from that hour he should speak of 
them, think of them, and write of them as ‘‘The 
New Eden.” He and Aunt ’Beth grew to be 
great friends. He admired her singleness and 
directness of purpose, her strong, practical com- 
mon sense, and the quaint way she had of assert- 


426 


’beth’s promise. 


ing her opinions and principles. She admired 
his pleasant, agreeable manner, his kind, hearty 
ways, so full of boiihoinie^ yet so devoid of lev- 
ity, and his practical views of men and things, 
which coincided closely with many of her own. 
She liked him because he was a ‘ ‘ cheerful Chris- 
tian,” as she expressed it — ‘‘there’s no sentimen- 
tality, and nothing ‘ put on ’ about him, and yet 
there's no lack of dignity; somehow you can 
never forget his sacred calling.” They had 
many a kindly spat together on doctrinal sub- 
jects, and frequent grave conversations on Cath- 
olic dogma, and at last she declared she had so 
weakened in her defence of ‘ ‘ Christian liberal- 
ism,” that she had not a word left for it. When 
his pleasant visit ended, they parted with mu- 
tual regrets. 

The friendly intercourse between “Ellerslie” 
and ‘ ‘ Tracy-Holme ’ ' became more closely knit- 
ted as the days went oul Lodo had married in 
the early spring, and she and her husband had 
gone straight away to the far West, with a 
wagon-load of substantial presents to begin 
house-keeping with, as well as a handsome sum 
of money, all contributed by Aunt 'Beth and 
the Morleys. Grateful, happy letters came reg- 
ularly from the little woman to ‘ ‘ Ellerslie, ' ’ tell- 
ing how happily they had accomplished theii 
journey, then of their progress in clearing land, 
their ploughing and sowing; with wonderful 
accounts of her horse, cow and poultry, and how 


’beth’s promise. 


427 


they lived in tents while their log-house was 
being built One letter came telling all about 
her garden, which produced vegetables of mar- 
vellous size, and of her “dairy, right over a 
beautiful spring, mem;” after that another, 
glowing in praise of their nice comfortable 
house into which they had just moved, all of 
them ending in praise of her Joe, who, she de- 
clared, was as good and jolly and industrious as 
a man could be. And, in time, she wrote word 
that two other families had settled within a mile 
or two of them; “and you’ll be glad to hear, 
mem, that the Government has removed them 
Injuns, that you were so uneasy about, to an- 
other reservation more than a hundred miles off. 
And I’m glad they are gone, too, for they were 
a drunken, thievish set, and you could never be 
sure, when you went to bed at night, that they 
wouldn’t pounce down upon you, and steal your 
horse and cow, and perhaps put an end to you, 
mem, with their tommyhoks and scalpin’ knives 
before you’d know where you were.” Aunt 
’Beth and every one at “Ellerslie” took great 
pleasure in Lodo’s letters and her accounts of 
how she and Joe were prospering. They laughed 
over one thing. Eodo, without saying it in so 
many words, made it very apparent that she did 
not like life under a roof as well as in tents. 
“That,” said Aunt ’Beth sententiously, “is her 
gypsy blood cropping out.” Many and kind 
were the letters that went out from “Ellerslie” 


428 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


to the little woman in the wilderness, from Aunt 
’Beth, Mrs. Morley, and ’Beth, telling her every- 
thing in and about her old home that they 
thought would interest her, especially about 
Peg, whose mane was wet with her tears after 
the last embrace she had given him the morning 
she went away. 

Aunt ’Beth was now enjoying perfect health, 
and was quite as active as she had ever been. 
She had got into the habit very gradually of at- 
tending Mass with Mrs. Morley and ’Beth, and 
they observed that she never seemed to lose a 
word of Father Hagner’s sermons, although she 
used to laugh and tell Mrs. Dulaney that she 
came because she did not relish being left out all 
alone in the cold. But there was a deeper and 
better motive for it than she cared to speak of 
which she covered with the only excuse she could 
invent. 

And ’Beth! Had she yet written, as she had 
promised, to Bertie Dulaney, even if he shotila 
be at the ends of the earthy to let him know that 
the cause which had separated them no longer 
existed? She had delayed doing so from month 
to month through a mistaken idea that, although 
absolved from her promise by her mother, the 
reasons which had induced her to require that 
promise existed all the same, and would be the 
cause of as much suffering now as then, should 
she marry Bertie Dulaney. She prayed for 
guidance and that her duty might be made plain 


Vbkth’s promise. 


429 


to her; and would it not be better, sbe thought 
sometimes, to go on and complete the sacrifice 
she had begun? She thought that the worst 
of her pain was over, and that in a little while 
she would remember him only as a friend. Then 
a whisper reached her from ‘ ‘ Tracy-Holme ’ ’ one 
day that Bertie Dulaney had met a young lady 
at Canton, a niece of the British Consul, with 
whom he had fallen in love; and later on, ’Beth 
was shown her photograph, which he had sent 
home to his mother, and she saw that it was the 
likeness of a very beautiful and graceful girl, 
whose countenance was expressive of the finest 
womanly qualities; and the Dulaneys talked 
without reserve before her of the probability of 
his bringing home a fair English bride when he 
returned. ’ Beth had to listen to the surmises and 
remarks of each one, for what did any of them 
know of what had passed between them the day 
he went away so suddenly? She had deceived 
herself in supposing she had gotten over the 
pain of her trial, and there came moments when 
she was heavy-hearted and sad. ’Beth had a 
I'jrave spirit of her own; she was not one to brood 
over trouble, and, best of all, she knew where to 
find strength, and solace, and patience to bear 
her cross to the end without faltering in the 
daily duties of life, and without one repining 
thought against the ordering of God’s provi- 
dence. “If,” she thought with a sharp pain, 
“Bertie has forgotten me, and replaced me in his 


430 


’betii’s promise. 


affections by one who will perhaps make him 
happier than I could have done, my task will be 
only made easier. In six months the cruise cf 
the “Wyoming” will end, and he will come 
home with his English bride — as they say; but 
mamma and I will be away among the Berkshire 
hills, and I shall not see them. Meantime I 
know that Our Blessed Lady of Succor is going 
to help me through.” 

They had planned, her mother and herself, to 
go very early the ensuing spring to see that all 
the alterations ordered at “Hayfields,” for the 
accommodation and comfort of some twenty aged 
and invalid clergymen during the summer 
months, had been completed, also to select and 
engage attendants and an experienced steward, 
to see to their wants and make them comfortable. 
Mrs. Morley had already funded a large sum of 
money in Boston to cover the expenses at “Hay- 
fields, ’ ’ should there be any over and above the 
liberal income derived from the large rich farm- 
lands of the estate. One room was fitted up as a 
chapel, and every appliance that would conduce 
to the comfort of her expected guests was thought 
of and provided throughout the large mansion. 
It was a great happiness to Mrs. Morley and 
’ Beth to think and talk over all they intended 
to do in the spring at “Hayfields,” in provid- 
ing relaxation and a restful home for those who 
were ever after to inhabit it; plans which Aunt 
’Beth’s practical suggestions made possible, and 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


431 


more suitable for the objects in view. The 
“Dorcas basket” was still one of the institutions 
at “Ellerslie;” to keep it filled with work was 
one of the aims of Aunt ’Beth’s life, and she de- 
manded tribute for it in the shape of needlework 
from Mrs. Morley and ’Beth whenever they had 
a spare hour to lend, which they took care — by 
putting aside something of less importance — to 
give daily, working gladly for a purpose so hu- 
mane and meritorious. ’Beth took up her music 
again, determined to leave no idle time in her 
daily life for sad thoughts; she even put herself 
under the tutelage of Mrs. Trott, to learn from 
that accomplished woman the art and science of 
pickling and preserving, and other domestic 
mysteries for which she was famous. She also 
took the amiable Peg under her patronage, an 
honor, judging by his delighted whinnying, he 
was duly sensible of and grateful for. With 
Aunt ’Beth or her mother for company, she drove 
up and down through the beautiful country every 
evening towards sunset, getting back in time for 
tea, and a little visit to St. Joseph’s to say her 
rosary and breathe earnest prayers for strength 
and courage to overcome all sad and vain regrets 
— regrets which often came unbidden, filling her 
eyes with tears at the memories they stirred up. 
“But I will overcome, God helping, and will be 
patient with myself until I do, ” she whispered 
over and over again ; “I wi] 1 not lose heart in 
the effort, but go on as best I may until the or- 
deal is safely past. ’ ’ 


432 


bkth’s promisk. 


One evening ’Belli was on hei way to tlie 
chapel to offer her devotions to the Sacred Heart, 
intending to go afterwards to the Dulaneys to 
see Elaine, whose little boy was ailing, when, 
as she approached the gate, she unexpectedly 
saw Father Hagner walking very rapidly towards 
her, his face pale, and showing traces of agita- 
tion. 

“Father Hagner, good evening!” she said, as 
he was about passing on without observing her. 

“Pardon me, my child! I am just on my way 
to ask some one to come to ‘ Tracy-Holme. ’ 
There’s great trouble over there, and no one 
seems to be able to think.” 

‘ ‘ I am sorry to hear such news. But what is 
it? Is Elaine’s baby worse?” 

“No: would it were only the baby!” ex- 
claimed Father Hagner. “I will tell you as 
well as I can, while I wait here a moment to re- 
cover myself” 

“Oh, Father Hagner, it must be something 
dreadful that has happened to our friends!” 

“Yes: the most dreadful thing that could have 
befallen them. Praise be to God! — He takes 
strange ways, surely, to fit His children for 
heaven! But I will tell you. This evening 
after dinner, while we were all together on the 
veranda, laughing and talking as cheerfully as 
may be, the man who brings the mail every day 
handed the New York papers to Mr. Dulaney, 
who was enjoying his afternoon smoke. He 


’bkth’s promise. 


433 


took the Herald from the package, and passing 
it to Paul, requested him to read the news, which 
he very willingly proceeded to do, but suddenly 
he stopped, exclaiming ‘My God!’ and throw- 
ing the paper down, rushed into the house. 
‘What can be the matter?’ ‘Paul is ill, depend 
on it!’ ‘How strange!’ were the exclamations 
each one uttered. 

“ ‘Do, for God’s sake. Father Hagner,’ ex- 
claimed Mr. Dulaney, after the others had 
dropped into a frightened silence, “do take up 
the Herald and see, if you can, what it is that 
has thrown my son into such a strange panic. ’ 

‘ ‘ I took the paper up from the floor, and glanc- 
ing rapidly over the page, found the place. It 
was a telegram in the Navy news. The ‘Wyo- 
ming’ had gone down in a terrible cyclone in 
Chinese waters, and every soul had perished. I 
gave the paper to Mr. Dulaney, indicating the 
place with my finger — I could not speak.” 

’Beth’s eyes dilated, her face grew very white, 
and she stood gazing at Father Hagner as if 
dazed or turned into marble; had she not leaned 
for support against the tree under which they 
were standing, she must have fallen; the shock 
was so great that everything grew dark around 
her; her heart seemed to stand still; and in that 
moment, measuring her love by her grief, she 
knew that she had not changed, and that the 
hope finally stricken by this new blow had lived 
on through all. 


14' 


434 


’beth’s promise. 


“My dear Miss Morley, I fear 1 have been 
cruelly abrupt!” said Father Hagner, terrified by 
her pallor and strange expression. 

By a supreme effort of will, ’Beth saved her- 
self from fainting, but could not immediately 
collect herself. 

“You said something about a ship — I do not 
exactly understand, ’ ’ she said very gently, pass- 
ing her hand over her forhead. 

“Yes. Let me help you to the house, my 
child, then I will tell your mother and Miss 
Morley the sad news, and ask them to go at once 
to ‘ Tracy-Holme ’ to try and comfort our friends. ’ ’ 
And Father Hagner drew her unresisting, cold 
hand through his arm, and so supported her 
steps, walking slowly. The good priest knew 
something now that he had long ago suspected, 
and his heart, full of human sympathy, ached for 
her. 

Aunt ’Beth and Mrs. Morley were on the ve- 
randa, enjoying the beauty and balminess of the 
evening while they chattered. Hearing the near 
approach of footsteps, they looked up to greet 
whoever might be coming, and saw Father Hag- 
ner and ’Beth. It was quite light enough for 
them to see that both were very pale, with a look 
of trouble shadowing each countenance. Both 
ladies started up, exclaiming: “What is the 
matter?” Mrs. Morley threw her arms around 
’Beth, and leading her to a chaise-lotmge^ ran iu 
to get wine and sal- volatile, without taking time 


’beth’s promise. 


435 


ti ask a question. Meantime Aunt ’Beth heard 
the sad news in a few brief words from Father 
Hagner, and, gathering her shawl around her, 
went back with him to the afflicted family to 
share their grief, and do what might might seem 
best to help them to bear it. 

When Mrs. Morley returned with the restora- 
tives she had gone for, ’Beth had fainted, and it 
was many minutes before consciousness was re- 
stored. Then seeing her mother’s distress, she 
roused herself, and trying to smile, said: “I am 
not ill, dear mamma! It was only the sudden 
bad news about the Dulaneys that Father Hag- 
ner told me. ’ ’ 

“Thank God that you are better, my ’Beth: 
but I’m very sorry there’s trouble over there. 
What can have happened?” said Mrs. Morley, 
smoothing her hands tenderly. 

“The ship, mamma — Bertie’s ship — lost — not 
a soul saved! Oh mamma !”^ she cried, throwing 
her arms around her mother and burying her 
face on her breast, while convulsive sobs seemed 
to rend her heart. 

Mrs. Morley could say nothing. The news was 
a great shock to her, reviving her own sorrows, 
reopening old wounds, and awakening the keen- 
est sympathy and regret for her own child and 
the friends so dear to them, while a gre.ut pity 
filled her heart for the sudden blotting out of a 
noble young life. Alas! the sorrow she had 
sought to avert from her child had come into 


436 


bkth’s promise. 


her life notwithstanding, and she could only lift 
her heart to God pleading for help, and to the 
sorrowful Heart of Mary — whose pure nature, 
tender and undefiled, had suffered griefs such as 
no mother, no woman on earth, had ever tasted 
— to succor them in this new and deep distress. 
She mingled her tears with ’Beth’s, who now, 
folded in her arms, told her all between her pas- 
sionate sobs, and she could but feel thankful that 
the tie between them had been what it was, in- 
stead of that indissoluble bond which would have 
made the pain of separation more bitter and en- 
during. 

‘Ht is almost night, mamma; let us go to the 
chapel and pray for them, and for him. Oh 
Bertie! Bertie! can it be that you are dead! And 
I — I — might have made you happy by writing 
what I had promised! Oh mamma! come! Oh, 
how broken promises hurt, when it is too late' 
Mamma, I have been trying to forget him, and 
think of him only as a friend, even though you 
released me two years ago from the promise I 
had given you — and I thought I had, until this 
cruel news came.” 

‘ ‘ But why, my child, when I voluntarily gave 
back your promise?” 

‘‘Because I wanted to spare you all anxiety, all 
pain, and oh! it has come — come with stings that 
reproach me!” cried ’Beth, wringing her hands 
in an aba^idon of grief. “Oh, mamma! I would 
have kept the promise I made you, but I broke 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


437 


the one I gave him! I thought it was for the 
best, and had he come back, I should have gone 
on thinking so. But now — when it is too late 
— my eyes are opened. Oh, be patient with me, 
dear mamma!” 

“Dear child,” said Mrs. Morley, deeply af- 
fected, ‘ ‘ let your grief have way. By-and-by the 
tempest will be calmed by the voice of Him who 
will speak peace to your poor heart in His own 
good time. Shall what you have confided to me, 
my ’Beth, be between you and me alone?” 

“Yes, mamma. Of what use would it be to 
speak of a past so dead? Our dear Lord will 
pity me, and I’ll try to go on with my life all the 
same. We know — you and I — and we’ll comfort 
each other by-and-by. Now we’ll go and kneel 
in His very presence, and pray for my lost love. ’ ’ 

’Beth rose up, swallowed some of the wine her 
mother had brought her, threw on her hat which 
had fallen upon the floor, and drawing it for- 
ward over her eyes,, they went together through 
the twilight to St. Joseph’s to pray for the soul 
of Bertie Dulaney, and for his grief-stricken par- 
ents. Father Hagner was there for the same 
purpose; and a dark figure, whose head was 
bowed upon his arms, from whom the sound of a 
stifled sob now and then proceeded, told where 
Paul Dulaney wept and prayed for the brother 
he had so dearly loved. 

Aunt ’Beth did not return until late, quite 
overcome with the scenes of distress she had wit- 
nessed. 


beth’s promise. 


438 

“I never saw anything like it, Anne, take it 
altogether, in my long life,’’ she said to Mrs. 
Morley, who had waited up for her. “Such 
anguish — I could understand that^ having passed 
through as severe a trial myself; but with it, 
such submission to the holy will of God! Such 
outbursts of grief, then a cry: ‘Thy will be 
done!’ It passes my comprehension! And what 
do you think? They are, every one, going to 
Communion in the morning, for the repose of 
his soul!” 

“That is one of the wonderful consolations 
Catholics have, dear Aunt ’Beth. We can help 
our dead by our prayers, our Communions, aiis [ 
good works, while they are detained in that 
place of expiatory suffering until they are puri- 
fied of the last of their earthly stains, and are 
ready to enter into the fulness of eternal rest. 
’Beth and 1 will unite with them for the same 
intention. It is impossible to describe how pray- 
ing for our dead, and knowing that our prayers 
avail for them when they can no longer help 
themselves, assuages our grief, and how much 
nearer and more truly it draws us to them, and 
lessens the wide blank distance that, without 
this comforting assurance of our Faith, stretches 
out between the living and the dead! It is glor- 
ious to know that the Church celestial, the 
suffering Church, and the Church militant, are 
one, united by one faith and the ceaseless com- 
munion of saints. ’ Mrs. Morley, her hands 


bkth’s promise. 


439 


clasped and her eyes raised heavenward, had 
spoken fervently; her heart had indeed given 
speech to its fulness. 

“I have read of such a belief, but never saw 
its workings before. I am not sure about it, but 
I am sure that you Catholics are unlike any 
other people living; and your belief seems to 
comfort you somehow. I am convinced that the 
soul of man, which is an immortal essence, must 
have something beyond this human life to cling 
to. The difficulty with me has always been as 
to what, and where, that something is. But I’m 
very tired! Mental excitement is more weary- 
ing than hard work. I suppose ’ Beth felt very 
sad over the news!” 

“Yes: it was a great shock to her,” answered 
Mrs. Morley, lighting Aunt ’Beth’s candle. 

There were two reverend gentlemen staying at 
“Tracy-Holme.” Every morning since their 
arrival, Father Hagner celebrated his Mass at 
four o’clock, followed by them, one at five and 
one at six. There were none present at Father 
Hagner’s Mass on this morning except the Du- 
laneys and the Morleys, and it was a deeply 
touching spectacle, as well as a sublime example, 
to see the afflicted family kneeling with humble, 
trusting faith, offering their great sorrow in 
union with the Divine Sacrifice for the repose of 
their loved and lost one, their pale, tear-stained 
faces expressing hope and resignation even 
through the sadness that shadowed them. Father 


440 


’bkth’s promise. 


Haguer’s tears streamed unchecked as he turned 
from the altar to give to each of his mourning 
friends the “Bread of Life,” their “Heavenly 
Guest,” who would enter into each sorrowful 
heart to sustain it, console it, and breathe peace 
and healing on its wounds; for the good priest 
knew how deep their grief, how bitter their loss, 
and also with what a supreme effort of faith and 
resignation they were trying to bear it for the 
love of Him who had borne all sorrows for them. 
They knew that Jesus had wept at the grave of 
His friend, and that He would pity their grief 
and bless their tears. 

Mrs. Morley and Aunt ’Beth spent part of 
every day at “Tracy-Holme,” where the sad, 
sorrowing family seemed to find a strange com- 
fort in talking to them, and to each other, of 
their brave, good Bertie. Everything, from his 
earliest days, was remembered and lovingly 
dwelt upon; his traits of character, his school- 
days, his boyish adventures, his noble, generous 
disposition, his merry temperament which used 
to keep the house, whenever he was in it, echo- 
ing with sounds of glee, and his dutiful, affec- 
tionate behavior, were all gone over with fast 
falling tears and the often breathed prayer, “God 
rest his soul! ”* “ Not that our Bertie was fault- 

less,” said Mrs. Dulaney one day, “he had his 
own faults, a high temper not being the least; 
but he was so quick to acknowledge his wrong- 
doing, so ready to ask pardon when spoken to; 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


441 


and whenever he made reparation he did it in 
such a sweet, pleasant way that no one could 
ever hold out long, no matter how aiigiy he 
might be. Our first grief was his going to sea. 
We opposed his selecting such a profcvssion, hon- 
orable and noble as it is, for we had other and, 
as we thought, better views for him; but he had 
set his heart upon it, and at last we yielded; we 
were advised to do so, lest opposing his choice 
of a career might have a bad effect upon him, as 
is sometimes the case. Then came the long 
cruises; I missed my boy more than I can tell, 
but his letters, which he sent regularly, thirty 
and more pages long very often, kept us in- 
formed of his movements, besides telling us of 
his enjoyments, his delight in his profession, and 
describing the strange lands he visited, were a 
great comfort. I must let you read them some 
time, Mrs. Morley.” Then they remarked that 
’ Beth had not been there, and asked why she did 
not come ? 

‘‘She has not been well,” said Mrs. Morley, 
“and did not quite know that she might. But 
I will tell her that you have spoken of her. ’ ’ 

“Do so; it will comfort me to see her, my poor 
Bertie thought so much of her. Indeed, I jvas 
quite sure at one time that he loved her, and I 
used to think what a good, happy, beautiful 
couple they would make. I can say so now that 
he’s gone; it will hurt nobody.” 

“I also fancied some such thing, dear Mrs. 


44^ ’bkth’s promise. 

Dulauey,” said Mrs. Morley, kissing her veiy 
tenderly. 

“I know she’s soriy^ — they were such great 
friends. Give her my love, and tell her to come 
to us; it will be like another link between our 
hearts and him.” 

And after that, ’Beth went to “ Tracy-Holme ” 
every day, stifling her own sorrow in the effort 
she made to give comfort to Mr. and Mrs. Du- 
laney, who were much touched by the depth and 
tenderness of her unspoken sympathy — un- 
spoken, but shown in a thousand nameless ways, 
which made her presence very grateful to them. 
A faint hope had entered their hearts after the 
first shock and somewhat buoyed them up — a 
possibility that the news about the ‘‘Wyoming” 
nad been exaggerated, that she had been injured, 
perhaps wrecked, but not lost with all her crew; 
that as least some of them must have escaped to 
tell the tale. But, alas! confirmation of the 
truth of the telegram which announced the dis- 
aster came to them from the Navy Department, 
in reply to Mr. Dulaney’s letter of inquiry. 
This was followed by a published official report 
of the loss of the U. S. ship “Wyoming,” with 
all on board, the same cyclone wrecking and en- 
gulfing a large English man-of-war, a Russian 
iron-clad, and a number of merchant vessels and 
inferior craft. 

“There are others as sorely stricken as we 
are, wife,” said Mr. Dulaney, laying his tremb- 
ling hand upon her bowed head. 


’bkth’s promise. 


443 


‘‘God in His mercy comfort them!” she mur- 
mured, “for earth has no healing for such 
wounds.” 

That afternoon Mr. Dulaney, while walking 
up and down the long broad porch, silent and 
thoughtful, was observed to falter and take un- 
certain steps. Paul put little Bertie down from 
his knee, and immediately joining his father, put 
his hand through his arm, and observed: “I’ve 
a mind to walk with you, father, if you have no 
objection.” 

“Ha! walk! Paul, is it you?” he said, turn- 
ing towards his son. 

“Yes, father. How fine the weather is, so 
cool and bright!” answered Paul, uneasy at the 
expression in his father’s eyes, yet doing his best 
not to appear so. 

“ Splendid weather! We shall soon have him 
home again, thank God!” he said, in cheery 
tones. The next moment Paul caught him in 
his arms in time to save him from falling to the 
floor. They gathered around him, but he was 
utterly unconscious; they thought he was dead, 
until Mrs. Dulaney, almost as speechless as he, 
discovered that his heart beat faintly. The 
nearest physician was sent for with all speed; 
another messenger was despatched to the tele- 
graph office to summon the medical attendant 
of the family from New York, and yet another 
for Father Hagner, who w^as fortunately at the 
cottage, and came to the bedside of his friend 


444 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


without delay. He saw at once that it was not 
an apoplectic attack which had prostrated him, 
and lowered his head. Stunned by grief, and 
unaccustomed to sickness among themselves, 
neither Mrs. Dulaney, nor Paul nor his young 
wife, had the least idea what to do. To wait 
and watch beside the poor unconscious sufferer; 
to pray with fervor for him, and for themselves, 
was all they could think of, until Father Hag- 
ner called for mustard plasters, and set them to 
rubbing his hands and feet, giving a vigorous 
example himself The doctor came sooner than 
they dared hope, and pronounced the attack to 
be paralytic — how severe he could not decide, but 
would remain by his side all night to watch the 
case and be ready for any emergency in which 
his skill might be required. But he would have 
no one in the room except Paul, who promised 
his mother to let her know, as the night wore 
on, if any change for better or worse took place. 
Then she went away to spend the heavy hours 
in prayer. Father Hagner remained, ready to 
administer the last rites if need be, pleading fer- 
vently with Heaven for the restoration of the 
good man to his family, and to the poor, whose 
constant benefactor he had always been. And 
in another quiet room, Elaine, weeping as she 
knelt by the side of her sleeping boy, offered her 
petitions for the father whom she had learned to 
love as her very own. Between daybreak and 
sunrise, Mrs. Dulaney heard Paul’s footsteps 


’bkth’s promise. 


445 


along the hall coming toward her; her heart 
stood still; she could not move, but waited in 
dread of the worst; he came in, and, leaning 
over her, kissed her tenderly. 

“Take heart, mother,’’ he said, while his 
tears dropped warm upon her face; “the worst 
symptoms have passed off, and the doctor says 
he is now sleeping, with a good pulse, and will 
awake very much better. He says that lowering 
father’s head probably saved his life — that and 
the mustard plasters and the rubbing, all to- 
gether, for he declares he hasn’t done a thing 
but sit there all night and look on. Father 
Hagner got here in good time.” 

“This is joyful news, my son, if — if — there’s 
no mistake ! Thanks be to our dear Lord for all 
His mercies!” said Mrs. Dulaney, her head upon 
her son’s breast, who held her supported tenderly 
in his arms. ‘ ‘ Oh, the desolation of the hours 
that have passed since he was taken ill! Our 
dear Blessed Lady has been our strong helper in 
this time of tribulation, and I believe that 
through her intercessions and that of the holy 
St. Joseph, my husband, their devout client, is 
spared. Oh, Paul, my son, never fail to honor 
and love them, as your father has honored and 
loved them through his long life.” 

“ I will try, dear mother. Lie down now and 
get a little sleep, for you know father will be 
distressed when he awakes if he sees you look- 
ing ill. There, dear mother, is the pillow right.'’ 


446 


beth’s promise. 


Now let me pull this silk quilt over you. That’s 
right. Now I’ll go find Father Hagiier to tell 
liiin the good news and let my wife know — poor 
little girl! — then I mean to return to father’s 
room, and stay there until he awakes, ’ ’ said Paul, 
kissing his mother’s pale cheek before he left her. 

When Mr. Dulaney awoke that morning, he 
was perfectly conscious, recognizing each one of 
his dear ones as they came in. He knew that 
he had been ill, but asked them no questions 
then; his head was clear and he felt as usual, 
with the exception of great heaviness in his 
right arm. He tried to shake hands with Father 
Hagner, but discovered that he could not move 
his arm. It was dead — the busy hand that had 
no stain of wrong-doing or evil clinging to it, 
but which had been lavish in good works, was 
paralyzed — its world’s work was done. 

‘‘It was time; God’s holy will be done!” he 
said, when speaking to his family about it. 
“The old should rest and give place to the 
young. And how thankful I ought to be, and 
am, wife, to know how many willing, loving 
hands there are to take the place of my old dis- 
abled one! Yours, Paul’s, Elaine’s, and ’Beth’s 
whei she is here, and even little Bertie’s,” he 
added, as he saw the nurse, with the handsome, 
rosy boy, laughing and crowing in her arms, go 
by the window. And their grief for the dead 
was tempered by their great thankfulness that 
he was yet spared to them, and would be for 


’beth's promise. 


447 


years to come, the doctors said, if he would en- 
tirely spare himself the anxieties and inevitable 
excitement of business cares; in fact, they coun- 
selled him to retire from business, which he was 
loth to think necessary, but promised to consider 
their advice. 

And the days wore on. Flashes of scarlet 
and flaming tints of yellow were already seen 
throughout the woods — the beautiful ripening of 
their summer life, which, like the dolphin, shows 
brightest in dying. The friendship between the 
Morleys and the Dulaneys had been drawn closer 
by the severe afflictions the latter had been vis- 
ited with. No one guessed ’Beth’s secret; they 
only thought she had loved Bertie as a brother, 
seeing how pale and quiet she had grown, and 
how tenderly and assiduously she did all she 
could to cheer and soothe their grief by quiet 
acts of endearment where words of consolation 
availed not. Mr. and Mrs. Dulaney watched 
daily for her coming, welcomed her with loving 
words when she appeared, and seemed quite con- 
tented when she laid aside her hat, and took her 
accustomed seat in the amily group, with sew- 
ing or crochet- work in hand, or a pleasant book 
that she had brought over to read aloud, if no 
one cared to talk. To Aunt ’Beth, the resigna- 
tion of this devout Catholic family was a strange 
revelation. 

“I wonder,” she said one evening to Father 
Hagnet, who, knowing that she was alone, had 


448 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 


gone over to have an hour’s chat with her, “1 
wonder the blow did not kill them. They do 
grieve, but how they can be so calm ‘because,’ 
as they say, ‘it was the holy will of God that 
they should suffer,’ is more than I can imagine. 
I don’t believe that all troubles come from God. 
Job’s didn’t, and it would depend very much on 
where mine were sent from, whether I could be 
resigned or not. ’ ’ 

“But Job’s were permitted by Almighty God, 
that His servant’s fidelity should be so proven as 
to confound the great adversary of souls, my 
dear friend,” said Father Hagner. “And so the 
faith, the love, the confidence of His children 
are tried even now, and they trust Him with 
firm hope to the end, clinging to His eternal 
promises, which they know to be sure and stead- 
fast: this is their privilege, and at last their eter- 
nal reward. It is only by the cross that we can 
win our crown.” 

Aunt ’Beth was silent for some little time. 
She was evidently deeply stirred. At last she 
said: “I am almost persuaded sometimes to 
cast my lot in with you all, for it seems to me 
that the relations between the Creator and His 
creatures are more in accord with His designs, 
and more perfect in your Faith than elsewhere. 
The Catholic religion is more tangible, more 
real and practical than any other system I am 
acquainted with, and its fruits — as I have seen 
them — bear witness of a power that is more 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 449 

divine tlian human. All other systems of phil- 
osophers and wise men, of religious enthusiasts 
and reformers, crumble, and are divided and 
scattered through some integral defect in them- 
selves, whatever it may be; but the Catholic 
Church stands unchanged — nothing can move 
her from her foundations. History shows me 
this clearly. It is a fact that cannot be contra- 
dicted, and in such a matter as this, I care only 
for facts.” 

“It is because the Catholic Church is Al- 
mighty God’s visible kingdom upon earth, 
divinely founded and divinely sustained, the 
conservator of the Truth from the beginning, 
against which all the powers of earth and hell 
combined can never prevail. You have read and 
acquainted yourself, as I have discovered in 
many of our long conversations, with the dog- 
mas of our holy Faith, and you have an oppor- 
tunity to see in daily life of the pious souls 
around you, how spiritual as well as practical in 
its effects the belief of Catholics is. Now, let 
me ask you a question, a very grave one. What 
do you mean to do? I am going to speak plainly. 
You admit the necessity of baptism, yet have 
never received that Sacrament. You not only 
admit, but believe many of the most important 
doctrines which are taught and practised by our 
divine Faith, while you have no solid objection 
to urge against the others. Yet you stand aloof 
waiting — waiting for what? I ask you in the name 
15 


450 


BETH'S PROMISE. 


of God! My dear friend, it is your eternal sal- 
vation that you delay, while the ‘night hastens 
on when no man can work,' that long eternal 
night of despair upon which no morning shall 
ev^er dawn. Be persuaded, then, to crown your 
long and useful life by accepting the one true 
Faith which invites you to enter into its safe 
fold, so that when you put off this mortal life, 
you may find safe entrance into that which is 
eternal. ’ ’ 

Father Hagner had spoken very earnestly, and 
the quiet around them, the far-oflf quivering 
glow of the stars above, and the low whisper 
among the leaves, seemed to lend a deeper solem- 
nity to his words, as if nature itself attested the 
truth of what he said. 

“I must do something; I can no longer live 
like a clod without a soul. I have been reading 
and thinking these many years, but found noth- 
ing to satisfy me, until being thrown among 
Catholics, I discovered from time to time from 
their books, their example, and their devout 
practices, a solution of some of the questions 
that have troubled my mind,” said Aunt 'Beth, 
in her quiet, positive tones. “And last of all the 
sublime, sweet resignation of those good people 
over yonder, convinces me that the religion which 
has taught them such superhuman trust, is the one 
I need. Say nothing to any of them yet, lest I 
fail; but lead me like a little child into your fold, 
if you think such a stiff-necked, obstinate old 


’beth’s promise. 


45 ^ 


woman as I am can be so led,” said Aunt ’Beth, 
whose firm voice neither faltered or grew faint 
It was her habit always to speak in clear, deci- 
sive tones, so that whomsoever she addressed 
could not fail to understand every word she said; 
but, if anything, it was more distinct and full of 
emphasis now than Father Hagner had ever re- 
membered to hear it Her ready and acquies- 
cent response to his appeal, so hoped for, yet so 
unexpected, almost took away his breath, even 
while his heart was lifted up with exceeding joy. 

“Thanks be to God! ” he said. “ The sooner 
we begin the better! The first thing is baptism. 
If you will come to the chapel as early as four 
o’clock to-morrow morning, there will be no one 
present, and nothing to distract the mind nor 
interrupt that quiet recollection of the Divine 
Presence one should always have in so impor- 
tant a work as the one upon which you will then 
enter. ’ ’ 

“But do you think me fit? am I sufficiently 
prepared, after all these years, to begin at once? ” 

‘ ‘ Have neither fears nor misgivings, my friend ! 
You come, not because you are well, to show 
yourself to a physician, but because you are sick 
and would be healed; not that you are fit nor 
worthy to receive the divine life-giving Sacra- 
ranients, but to be made so by their reception. 
Come then like a little child, yielding your hu- 
man will to that of our Lord, and all will be well 
you,” he answered. “Now, good night, and 
God’s peace and blessing rest with you!” 


45 ^ 


’bkth’s promise. 


The next morning Father Hagner celebrated 
his Mass at five o’clock, one of the clergymen 
who had been spending some weeks at “Tracy- 
Holme” having gone home. The Morleys were 
surprised, as they were leaving the church door, 
to be joined by Aunt ’Beth. They had not ob- 
served her presence at Mass, but felt sure that 
she must have been there all the time, for she 
never did anything idly, and would not have 
walked over just for the pleasure of walking 
back again. But they smiled a welcome, asking 
no questions, and Mrs. Morley slipped her arm in 
hers, ’ Beth holding her hand on the other side, 
and they walked together in silence until they 
passed into the ‘ ‘ Ellerslie ’ ’ grounds. Then ’ Beth 
said: 

‘‘You stole a march on us this morning. Aunt 
’Beth, but never was a visitor more welcome; and 
I hope you liked being there so well that you’ll 
come again, and often.” 

“Yes, I have come late, but at last, my ’Beth. 
What I have done this morning, is worth more 
than all I have ever done in my whole life,” she 
said, standing still before them, her little hands 
clasped together, while her face wore a grave, 
sweet expression. “I have been baptized, my 
children, and received into the Church: I am no 
longer an outsider waiting at the gate, but a 
Catholic like yourselves.” 

“Oh, what joy!” exclaimed Mrs. Morley, while 
’Beth folded her in her arms, too delighted to 
speak. 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


453 


‘‘Letusgo on quietly, my dears,” she said, 
gently. “Rejoice with me when you see me 
carrying my ‘white robe unspotted to the Judg- 
ment-seat of Christ, ’ which I will humbly try, 
with the help of God, to do; until then, you 
must help me with your prayers. ’ ’ 

After that she never spoke of herself, but as 
her natural life had been, so her religious life 
became, full of energy, practical and abounding 
in good works, all sanctified by a motifs the 
fruits of which were a deathless hope that 
stretched from this life to the life beyond, and a 
peace which it had never entered her mind to 
conceive until now. When it became noised 
abroad that the old lady of “Ellerslie” had 
turned “papist,” the good people of the neigh- 
borhood thought the end of all things must be at 
hand; but as nothing particular happened, and 
they met her going about attending to her affairs, 
and giving help freely wherever it was needed, 
as usual ; when they heard her occasional sharp 
rebukes for their thriftlessness, or idleness, smit- 
ing, as was her way, with one hand while she 
healed with the other, their wonder subsided, 
while their curiosity arose to go and investigate 
for themselves the strange doings, of which they 
had heard at the “Romish Church down there 
at ‘ Tracy, ’ ” to see if they could find out what 
had upset such “a level head” as hers. And 
some of them were so well impressed by what 
they saw and heard, that they went again, and 


454 


’beth’s promise. 


yet again, until at last they were drawn over the 
vessel’s side in the nets of Peter, while others 
went away, thinking what they saw to be all 
foolishness, a stumbling-block and delusion. 

One evening, the eve of the Feast of St Mi- 
chael the Archangel, to whom Father Hagner 
had a great devotion, he was standing just out- 
side the sacristy door, waiting for whoever else 
should come to confession. Many had already 
been, but there were always stragglers who came 
at the last moment; some detained by necessity, 
others from a general spirit of unreadiness; how- 
ever it might be, he made it a rule never to 
disappoint them. He was beginning to think 
the labors of the day were ended, and that he 
would have time to look over and classify a box 
of school and Sunday-school library books, that 
had been ordered by Mrs. Dulaney, and which 
had arrived at noon by express, but which he 
had not been able to spare a moment to open, 
when suddenly he heard a horse coming at a 
fast trot up the road; in another instant he was 
in sight, a man upon his back, with no hat upon 
his head, and showing every sign of hot haste; he 
sprang oiOf, and throwing the rein over the horse- 
rack, advanced with quick strides towards Father 
Hagner, holding out a letter which he handed 
to him as soon as he was near enough, saying: 
‘‘The post-master sent me off with it, sir, the 
minute he opened the mail-bag; he didnT stop 
for nothin’, but told me to ride neck or nothin- 


’bkth’s promise. 


455 


till I give it into your riverince’s own hand, and 
you can see I haven’t spared the baste by the 
lather he’s in, nor myself either, for the matter 
of that, ’ ’ added the man, mopping his face and 
head. 

“Thank you, my friend. Are you to wait for 
an answer?” asked Father Hagner, glancing at 
the letter, which had the New York post-mark 
on it. 

“No, sir: I was tould to put it into your own 
hands, and come straight away.” 

“Thank you again; but I’m sorry you’ve had 
such a hard ride. Let me offer you a little re- 
freshment after it.” 

“If you plase, your riverince, an’ it’s not too 
much trouble. ’ ’ 

Father Hagner stepped into his cottage, and 
came back with a mug of ale, which the over- 
heated, tired man drank with many thanks; then • 
mounting his horse, he galloped off down the 
road. 

“A most extraordinary proceeding,” thought 
Father Hagner, turning the letter over; “I’m 
sure it’s something about those books that came 
to-day, perhaps a list, and I think I’ll go right 
away and let Mrs. Dulaney know they have ar- 
rived all safe, and we’ll go over the list to- 
gether.” He was on the very point of opening 
the letter, when one of the factory hands, a 
tired-looking woman, approached, and asked 
would he please to hear her confession; she was 


456 


^bkth’s promise. 


sorry to be so late, but two of her children were 
sick and she couldn’t leave them till her husband 
got home from his work. 

‘‘Certainly, my child; go into the church: in 
the morning I’ll come to see the little ones,” he 
said, slipping the letter, still unopened, into the 
breast-pocket of his coat. 

“Thank you. Father: it’ll make us very happy 
if you will.” 

Then the good priest went into the confes- 
sional where, in listening to the plaint of a 
wounded spirit, and giving such counsel as best 
suited its care, he quite forgot the letter, until, 
shriven and consoled, the poor penitent had 
made her brief thanksgiving and was on her 
way back to her suffering children. 

But at last he was free to go, and found the 
family, and the Morleys, who were spending the 
• evening with them, assembled on the wide old 
latticed porch, taking tea. Kind, pleasant words 
greeted him, and Paul Dulaney drew out an arm- 
chair for him, near his mother and father, while 
Elaine ran in to bring him a cup of hot tea, 
leaving her handsome boy on his knee to be 
petted and admired until she returned. Aunt 
’Beth was relating one of her amusing experi- 
ences with some of her friends among the hills, 
whose ideas of the world were limited by just so 
much of it as they could see from their own 
doors; and Father Hagner thought there was a 
more cheerful spirit pervading the little circle 


bkth’s promise. 


457 

than he had observed for some time, and was not 
slow to contribute towards it. 

It was a glorious evening: the west was full 
of golden splendors and crimson lights, the east 
smiling back the glory in softer tints of rose 
color and pale violet, while, far above, the pearl- 
tinted cirri, catching the gleam in rare veins of 
color, floated ' softly and brightly along to meet 
the twilight shadows already creeping up the 
hillsides. 

“St. Michael’s eve! St. Michael, the strong 
and mighty, who is always ready to help and 
deliver us poor exiles,” said Father Hagner; 
“one might think he was already drawing near 
in a chariot of fire, the sky is so resplendent. ’ ’ 

A shade of sadness passed over some of the 
faces that looked out towards the brightness, and 
into more than one heart entered the involun- 
tary thought: “Oh, that he, so mighty and 
strong, had delivered our Bertie from death!” 

“And to-day, appropriately enough, Mrs. Du- 
laney, the books for our Sunday-school and 
library came to hand; and I take it as a good 
omen,” went on the pious priest, “for I mean 
to place our schools under the patronage of St. 
Michael. And that reminds me of a letter about 
the same books I received this evening, and 
brought over with me to show you; at least, I 
suppose it is something about the books, for I 
was interrupted and did not open it.” 

Father Hagner drew out the letter, broke the 
seal, opened it, and glanced rapidly over it. 


458 


’beth’s promise. 


“Almighty Father!” he whispered undei his 
breath, as he looked up, his face suddenly pale; 
then he started from his chair, as if some great 
shock had unnerved him. They were all 
alarmed; they thought he was ill, or had re- 
ceived distressing news, and one ran for wine, 
another for water, while Aunt ’ Beth told him to 
sit down and let her loosen his cravat; but by a 
strong effort he recovered himself, and looked 
into the anxious faces gathered around him. 

“Pardon me, dear friends, for having alarmed 
you, ’ ’ he said ; ‘ ‘I have received here some very as- 
tonishing and unexpected news, but the best that 
can be imagined — just such news as is fitting for 
the Eve of St. Michael.” 

“My Bertie!” exclaimed Mrs. Dulaney, clasp- 
ing her hands, her eyes suddenly bright with 
hope, but as suddenly clouded, as she mur- 
mured, “But no! no! how could it be! Oh vain 
hope! — Help me, sweet Mother of Sorrows, to 
wait patiently in the only hope that will in the 
end be crowned with certainty!” 

“Yes, wife,” said Mr. Dulaney, who had over- 
heard her whispered prayer: “there is no earthly 
hope that we shall ever see our boy again until 
the ‘sea gives up her dead;’ and until then let us 
rest in that higher and better hope which Al- 
mighty God in His mercy has given us. ’ ’ 

Father Hagner looked over the letter again 
more slowly, and with renewed emotion. 

“Does your letter concern any oi us, Father 


’bkth’s promise. 


459 


Hagner?” asked Aunt ’Beth, in her matter-of- 
fact way. “Whatever it may be, perhaps it will 
be better to let ns know, for any certainty is bet- 
ter than suspense. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” added Mr. Dulaney, “let us hear it, 
for we are not so given up to our own grief that 
we cannot afford to rejoice with our friends.” 

“St. Michael help us! It is true, my friends, 
that this letter has made me lose my head, and I 
am sure you will not wonder at it when you hear 
the news it brings. But tell me, could you bear 
to hear something very joyful?” said Father 
Hagner, addressing them all, but fixing his eye 
on Mr. Dulaney. 

“Do not fear for me,” he answered; “I do not 
think joy would kill me, since grief failed to 
do so; God is our strength, and in Him do we 
trust.” 

“Well, tiien, my dear good friends, try to keep 
quite calm. Suppose now that you were to hear 
that some of the crew of the ‘Wyoming’ had es- 
caped death — hear me out — and that a hope ex- 
ists that your son, whom you have mourned as 
dead, is alive?” 

“Better not awaken such a hope as that; it is 
impossible! No one ever escaped with life from 
a cyclone such as that was, ’ ’ said Mr. Dulaney, 
who began to think Father Hagner was not act- 
ing with his usual judgment or kindness; but he 
soon changed his mind. 

“You are right, sir, every one on board the 


460 


BETH’S PROMISE. 


‘Wyoming’ perished when she went down as we 
have heard; but there were three of the officers 
who were at Hong-Kong, and thus escaped the 
fate of their shipmates. Your son, Lieut. Du- 
laney, was one of the number, and this letter is 
from hmi. There it is, my friends read it.” 

It was a moment of intense emotion and deep 
joy. Mrs. Dulaney fainted in Mrs. Morley’s 
arms; Mr. Dulaney, with tears streaming over 
his face, lifted his hands and eyes in speechless 
thanksgiving to heaven. Father Hagner disap- 
peared, and ’Beth slipped away to the chapel to 
pour out her tears and thanksgiving together. 
Father Hagner was already there, kneeling mo- 
tionless before the altar, praising God with a joy 
too deep for words, for the great happiness where- 
with He had visited His faithful servants. 

It was indeed true, and this is how, by God’s 
providence, Bertie and his friends were saved. 
A rumor had reached the American Minister, 
then resident at Canton, that an American vessel 
had been fired into by one of the native forts on 
the Corean coast, and the “Wyoming” was or- 
dered to steam down without loss of time to in- 
quire into and punish the outrage should the 
news be true, after which she was to proceed to 
Hong-Kong with important dispatches to the 
U. S. Consul, which demanded prompt attention. 
But it was ascertained that the Coreans had no 
design of firing on the American vessel. They 
were engaged in trying some new guns they had 


’beth’s promise. 


461 


just mounted, when she sailed defiantly within 
range, her flag displayed, although they had sig- 
nalled her off, and ceased firing until she had 
changed her course, facts that were attested by 
the residents of a small French station near by, 
who were witnesses of the scene. 

Arrived at Hong-Kong, the officers of the 
‘‘Wyoming” found everything so delightful in 
the cultivated American and English Society 
resident there, that Lieut. Dulaney and two of 
his friends asked and obtained leave to remain a 
week longer, at the expiration of which time 
they were to join their ship at Canton by the 
British mail steamer, which started on her reg- 
ular trip at that time. They saw the “Wyo- 
ming” sail gallantly out of port, her beautiful 
flag gleaming in the sunshine as the smoke of 
her parting salute rolled away, blending with 
that from the English fort, whose cannon thun- 
dered a return of the national courtesy; they 
saw the red-cross banner of St. George and the 
“stars and stripes” dip gracefully to each other, 
and heard the hearty cheers of the brave tars 
as she went seaward before a spanking breeze, 
little dreaming of the fatal disaster that awaited 
her in the very near future : nor did they hear 
of it until they reached Canton, when it was 
the first news that greeted them. Almost 
stunned by the intelligence, they rushed to the 
U. S. embassy to make inquiry and report them- 
selves, hoping against hope for better news, but 


463 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


only to meet a confirmation of what they had al« 
ready heard. Fortunately for the party, Bertie 
Dulaney had his letter of credit on an English 
banking house at Canton safe in his pocket- 
book, which provided them with the necessary 
funds to get home. This attended to, they went 
immediately to the shipping docks, to inquire 
into the probabilities of finding a craft of some 
sort ready to sail for the States, or any Euro- 
pean port, on which they could embark imme- 
diately. Happily, they found one — a merchant 
vessel that was taking in a cargo of teas and raw 
silk for San Francisco, which expected to sail 
the next day. They engaged passage, and, after 
an unusually short voyage, arrived safely within 
the “Golden Gate,” and landed at San Fran- 
cisco. They lost no time in getting to the Isth- 
mus of Panama, and spared no expense in urg- 
ing their way across it, in hopes of finding that 
the New York steamer had not left, and to their 
great joy arrived just five minutes before she 
cast off her mooring. It was time enough, how- 
ever, for their purpose, as good as five hours 
would have been ; for they had no baggage, and 
were possessed of but one idea, which was to get 
home. They had not written, hoping by their 
expeditious movements to arrive there as soon 
as if not before a letter, for there was not at that 
time the same rapid transit for the mails as now. 
They reached New York in due time, where the 
friends parted, one going South and another 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


463 


West, while Bertie Dulaney waited long enough 
to write a few lines to the postmaster near his 
home, requesting that the letter to Father Hag- 
ner which he enclosed, and which contained the 
sum and substance of what we have related, 
should be sent to him by a special messenger the 
moment it was received, which, as we have seen, 
was done. He was afraid to write to his father, 
in fact to any of them, knowing that his name 
was in the list of those who were lost on the 
“Wyoming;” he thought the shock might 
prove too severe, and that it would be better to 
get Father Hagner to break the tidings to them 
as well as he could. He expected to be home 
by the five o’clock morning train, he added. 
We have seen how Father Hagner acquitted 
himself — awkwardly enough, some may think ; 
but what he did tell them sufficed to turn their 
mourning into joy, the manner of their hearing 
it being lost sight of in the deep thankfulness 
and joy that pervaded their hearts. 

St. Michael’s eve, with the glory and inde- 
scribable beauty that transfigured the sky and 
touched the old earth as with primal splendors! 
St. Michael’s eve, with its glad tidings of great 
joy, would glow in their memory so long as life 
should last, ever rekindling, ever renewing their 
fervent gratitude to Almighty God for the great 
mercy vouchsafed to them in restoring to them 
the son whom they had mourned as dead. 

There was but little sleep that night at ‘ ‘ Tracy- 


464 


’bkth’s promise. 


Holme. ’ ’ Mr. and Mrs. Dulaney wanted the Mot- 
leys to remain and share their joy, but they, feel- 
ing that a meeting like this would be too sacred 
to intrude on, went home, promising to be with 
them soon after breakfast the next morning. 
’Beth was very quiet; now, that she knew he 
was alive, and that she would see him in a few 
hours, she dreaded meeting him; all that she 
had heard about that beautiful English girl at 
Canton arose in her mind. Were they betrothed? 
Perhaps they were married when he got back to 
Canton after the wreck of the ‘‘Wyoming,” and 
he had brought her home, his fair young bride! 
And if this were not so, why should he not be 
changed towards herself? She had not kept the 
promise she made him the day they parted three 
years ago; she had never sent him a line, nor 
made any sort of a sign to let him know that the 
“reason” which had separated them no longer 
existed. What right then had she to expect 
that he was constant? None at all. And so it 
happened that while every one else rejoiced, her 
heart was heavy and sad; she wished herself a 
thousand miles away — but there she was, and 
would have to face squarely whatever new trial 
awaited her. She was sorry that she had not 
written as she had promised; but she had acted 
for the best, and it was too late now for vain re- 
giets. And so, sitting at her window, she mused 
the night away, until the radiant September 
stars began to fade out of sight in the approach- 


'beth’s promise. 


465 


ing aureole of another day-dawn. She heard a 
carriage driven rapidly away from “Tracy- 
Holme,” and knew that Paul Dulaney was on 
his way to the post-town to meet the train, and 
bring back the wanderer to the loving embraces 
of those who awaited him, and who had been 
mourning him as dead for many days. She pic- 
tured the scene to herself, then leaned her head 
upon her arm and cried; tears cooled and calmed 
her heart and nerves, and kneeling down, she 
found strength and comfort in her favorite devo- 
tion, the rosary, and placed herself anew under 
the protection of her whose mysterious joys and 
sorrows and glories it celebrates. 

She heard the next morning that he had come 
home, that he had got there in time, after the 
joy of the first meeting was over, to prepare 
himself and receive Holy Communion with his 
parents, with Paul and Elaine, at Prather Hag- 
ner’s Mass — a thank-offering full of the deepest 
solemnity and emotion to them all. 

More than two or three days had passed before 
things settled down to their usual routine at 
‘ ‘ Tracy-Holme. ’ ’ Every one wanted Bertie here, 
there and in all parts of the house, to show him 
this, to tell him that, or just to have him within 
sight, as if not quite sure it was not all a dream, 
and that at the next turn they would awake and 
find him missing; and it took a yet longer time to 
rid themselves of the idea that he had come back 
to them from the dead. He was very happy and 


466 


’^kth's promisk. 


very yielding to their loving behests for a few 
days, ranging from one to another with Elaine’s 
boy on his shaulder, who would at last go to no 
one else, and was called forthwith ‘‘the old man 
of the sea” by his father, and told to “hang on,” 
which he did. Once or twice Aunt ’Beth and 
Mrs. Morley had come over and given him warm 
welcome, and heartfelt congratulations; but 
where was ’Beth? He knew she was at “Eller- 
slie,” his mother had told him so, and also how 
like a dear, loving daughter she had been to his 
father and herself in their great affliction. They 
all talked of her in words of praise and admira- 
tion; but why did she not come, if only to shake 
hands and say she was glad he had not gone 
down to his death on the “Wyoming?” She 
was not sick, for Mrs. Morley had told him she 
was perfectly well; and her holding back must 
be because she was indifferent, and did not care 
to renew her acquaintance with him. Then a 
shadow fell over Bertie Dulaney’s heart, and his 
mother thought he was tired of being so much 
in the house, and told them all not to hang 
around him so much, but leave him free to come 
in or go out as he would; which he, in the rest- 
less worry of his mind, quickly perceived and 
availed himself of. But his long walks in the 
old haunts failed to wear off his unrest; he longed 
for some one to speak to, but to whom should he 
go with his difficulties? At last, grown quite 
desperate, he went to see Father Hagner, de- 


’betii’s promise. 


467 


tenniiied to unbosom himself to him and ask his 
counsel. It was a gloomy autumnal evening; 
the dark lowering clouds scudded along like the 
avanl couriers of a wintry storm, and Bertie felt 
that the weather, at least, was in unison with his 
mind, as he entered the pastor’s cottage, and 
found him in his little study alone, enjoying for 
a little while the restful twilight which gave him 
a brief respite from the accounts that he had been 
working over for the last few hours. It is use- 
less to relate what passed in this confidential con- 
versation between the two friends; we will only 
say that Bertie went home with a lighter heart 
than he had brought with him, despite the dark- 
ness and the cold rain that beat upon and nearly 
drenched him. 

iK 5|e He 5k 

“And you’ll forgive me, Bertie? How could 
I write to you after hearing about the beautiful 
English girl ? That seemed to put an end to 
everything, you know,” said ’Beth to her 
lover, as they stood together in the old “Ellers- 
lie” glen. 

“And so you doubted me?” he asked. He had 
not questioned, nor had ’Beth yet explained, the 
cause that had separated them. He was per- 
fectly satisfied to know that it no longer existed, 
and that her heart, during his long absence, had 
been true and loyal to him, notwithstanding her 
efforts to overcome an affection which first and 
last had seemed hopeless. 


468 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


“No, not exactly that; I could not have blamed 
you; I did not blame you when I had every rea- 
son to think the news 1 heard about the English 
lady and yourself was true; but it huit me, 
Bertie, none the less, ’ ’ she said. 

“I don’t think that the letters in which I spoke 
of Miss Gray could, by any stretch of the imag- 
ination, have conveyed the idea that she and I 
were engaged, or that I even had any serious 
idea of addressing her. In the first place, my 
betrothed was here — for I never gave you up, my 
’Beth; in the next, she was engaged to a young 
English officer, and I expected to go to her wed- 
ding when we got back to Canton. The Consul’s 
family had been very kind to me, making me at 
home among them with cordial welcome when- 
ever I came ashore; while she — Miss Gray — re- 
minded me so much of you, that it comforted me 
somehow whenever I saw her, and we were good 
friends, that’s all.” 

>|e :|e :1c 

“And now, nly son,” said Mr. Dulaney one 
morning, as he and Bertie sat together on the 
porch, after a prolonged conversation about his 
affairs, and their relation towards himself now, 
when tranquillity was absolutely essential to the 
prolongation of his life; “you understand how 
necessary you are to me — to us all? I can no 
longer superintend our immense business; lam 
scarcely fit to advise, but can afford the result 
of my experience to whomsoever shall carry it 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


469 

on. I built it up honestly — thanks be to GodI 
— from small beginnings, and it would nearly 
break my heart, I do believe, to see it closed up. 
The burden will be too heavy for Paul to bear 
alone, and I am averse to taking a stranger in. ’ ’ 

“I see, father; I have been thinking this mat- 
ter over ever since I came home, and had de- 
cided what to do, but have been waiting for you 
to speak. I mean to resign. The country is at 
peace, and will probably remain so for many 
years to come, and I can be spared: I shall re- 
sign with the understanding that should there 
be another war, my services will be accepted and 
my present rank restored. After I arrange every- 
diing with them down there at Washington, I 
will settle down in good earnest, for ’Beth Mor- 
ley and I will be married before long,” answered 
Bertie. 

“Bertie, my son, you relieve my mind of a 
great load of anxiety, and make me very happy. 
If it were God’s holy will, I could depart now in 
great peace, since He has blessed me so far be- 
yond my deserts. Your resignation of so peri- 
lous a profession will secure peace and tranquil- 
lity to the last days of your mother and myself; 
while your marriage with that dear girl, ’Beth 
IMorley, will crown them with greater happiness. 
•She is worthy of you, my son, and you of her, 
and may God bless your union! But how long 
have you been thinking of this?” 

“Ever since the first day I saw her, now 


470 


’bbth’s promise. 


nearly three years ago. We are engaged, and 1 
thought it would be best to have my plans all 
settled before I urged her to name a day for our 
marriage. I will go to Washington to-morrow 
to report, and then lay my case before the Secre- 
tary of the Navy, who, I hope, will accept my 
resignation immediately. I think that, know- 
ing the circumstances, he will do so. That de- 
cided, I shall claim my wife, and give you and 
my mother another daughter.” 

“I congratulate you, my boy, from my soul. 
You have made the very choice I would have 
made for you, had I had a say in the matter. I 
declare I feel so happy that I must go find your 
mother and tell her the good news: but give me 
another cigar before I go — light it for me, my 
boy — thank you. With this in my mouth, they 
can’t make me talk more than I want to, you 
know.” 

“ I’d go with you, father, but I must run over 
to ‘Ellerslie’. to let them all know I am going 
away for a week, and perhaps, father, I may not 
be home to dinner — please tell mother so, ’ ’ said 
Bertie, as he went away towards “Ellerslie,” 
where, after he had unintentionally thrown them 
into a panic by the announcement of his inten- 
tion of starting for Washington the next morr- 
ing — ^they fearing that he was going to apply for 
sea-orders— and quieted their minds by telling 
them it was his turn now for shore duty, he 
spent a happy afternoon and went away with 


’BETH’S PROMISE. 47 1 

’Beth’s promise to name an early day for their 
wedding when he returned. He gave no inti' 
mation of his intention to resign, not exactly 
knowing how his application would be received 
at the Navy Department; for it is not an unusual 
thing for a proffered resignation to be pigeon- 
holed, or flatly refused, and he thought it would 
be best to say nothing about it until he was 
quite sure, one way or the other. Here it will 
be well to remind the reader that he was yet in 
ignorance of ’Beth’s ‘‘promise” of long ago, 
and of the doubts and fears that had grown out 
of it, even after being released from it by her 
mother. 

Mrs. Morley and Aunt ’Beth knew of the en- 
gagement, and had very willingly consented to 
it when Bertie Dulaney had spoken to them, and 
had welcomed him as a son into the family. 
They participated in ’Beth’s happiness, which 
had brought back the delicate rose-tint to her 
cheeks, and the old light to her eyes; but her 
trials had chastened the former glad expression 
of her countenance to a more womanly and in- 
describable loveliness. 

“I am very happy,” ’Beth wrote to Father 
Thomas, “so happy that I sometimes feel a lit- 
tle afraid. I think my trials have taught me 
how transitory all human happiness is, and how 
safe it is to cling close, through weal as well as 
woe, to our dear Lord and His blessed Modier, 


473 


’bkth’s promise. 


who, if we are faithful, will lead us with tendei 
compassion through the dark passes of life to 
the eternal enjoyment of their presence into 
which no griefs, nor disappointments, nor bitter- 
ness can enter. But don’t think because I un- 
veil my innermost heart to you in this way, that 
I mean to go about holding a death’s head in my 
hands. No indeed! I rejoice, and am too thank- 
ful for all that, by God’s mercy, has turned my 
sorrow into joy. My Bertie, who is very dear 
to me, will not fail my expectations; a nature so 
noble and true as his, consecrated by our holy 
Faith, will be an example and help to me; he 
will bear with my imperfections, I with his hu- 
man weaknesses, and I pray God that we may live 
before Him in that oneness of life, serving Him 
in spirit and in truth, which will bring a bless- 
ing upon our union, and be well pleasing in His 
sight. I don’t expect perfect felicity: Bertie’s 
dangerous profession will often separate us, and 
leave me free from anxious foreboding only when 
he is on dry land, at home; and I look for vari- 
ous trials, I don’t know what, to befall us; but, 
with God’s help, we’ll meet them with courage^ 
trusting in Him — our Father — whose promises 
never fail. Bertie will be sure to come and see 
you while he is in Washington, hoping to pre- 
vail upon you to come to ‘Ellerslie’ to perform 
a certain function before very long, which he 
will explain. Do say some prayers, dear Father 
Thomas, for him to be stationed at the Washing- 
ton Navy-Yard, which I am sure he would like. 


’bkth’s promise. 


473 


'‘Mamma and Aunt ’Beth, what with their 
shopping expeditions to New York, and various 
preparations for the coming event, are as busy as 
two hens with one duckling between them. I 
don’t interfere, except to insist on a quiet wed- 
ding. Our marriage will be a Sacrament, and I 
shrink from turning it into a spectacle, Bertie 
agrees with me. Afterwards, when we get back 
from our journey somewhere, I tell them will be 
time enough to celebrate the festivities at ‘ El- 
lerslie ’ and ‘ Tracy-Holme. ’ Mr. and Mrs. Du- 
laney came over to see me as soon as ever Bertie 
told them about our little romance, and embraced 
and blessed me, saying many very kind words 
which I knew came from their hearts, as did the 
little 1 was able to say come from mine. 

“They are calling me now to come down stairs 
to see the unpacking of a box just arrived from 
New York, and my ignorance of millinery and 
all that will no doubt excite their indignation — 
I mean Aunt ’Beth and mamma by ‘ they.’ But 
good-by. In haste, dear Father Thomas. Your 
ever faithful child in Christ, 

“’Beth.” 

And now, what more have we to tell? Only 
this After some remonstrances from the Secre- 
tary of the Navy, and a few days’ delay, giving 
Bertie Dulaney time to reconsider his application, 
his resignation was accepted on the terms he de- 
sired, and the first that any of them at “Ellers- 
lie” knew of it, was when he placed the official 


474 


’bets’s promise. 


document in ’Beth’s hands. He arrived by the 
evening train, and did not stop to go home, but 
drove over to “Ellerslie” in the dog-cart, which 
had been sent to meet him. He ran in, seeing 
no one on the veranda, and found them, Mrs. 
Morley, Aunt ’Beth, and his betrothed, at the 
tea-table. After kissing them all round, and 
after the first glad greetings had subsided, he 
drew a chair up beside ’Beth, and placed the 
official document in her hands. The great red 
seal of the U. S., and the printed back of the 
envelope, told her instantly where it was from; 
her cheeks paled, she thought it contained orders. 

“What must I do with it, Bertie?” she asked. 

“Open it and read it,” he answered, with only 
a half smile, for he did not in the least know 
how she, the daughter of a brave, heroic officer, 
would take it. 

There was silence, broken only by the rustling 
of the stiff paper; then, uttering a glad cry, she 
leaned her head upon his shoulder, and he folded 
his arm around her. 

“Oh, Bertie!” she exclaimed, rising from the 
table, and standing in all the radiance of her 
sweet, womanly beauty before him, “this makes 
me very happy! I am so glad! mamma. Aunt 
’Beth, what do you think this great boy has 
gone and done? He has resigned from the Navy! 
He will no longer be an amphibious creature, 
but will live on dry land, henceforth and for- 
ever.” 


’beth’s promise. 475 

‘‘Thank God for all His mercies! Are you 
not rejoiced, Anne?’^ ejaculated Aunt Beth. 

“Glad beyond words!’’ said Mrs. Morley, her 
face beaming with joy. ‘i Oh, ’Beth, my darling, 
how well all things seem to have been ordered! 
If we could only be patient enough to await 
God’s holy will, how much suffering we should 
be spared! Bertie, I have given you my all, my 
only one, and I shall claim some little love in 
return. ’ ’ 

“Never fear, Mrs. Morley: ’Beth’s mother 
will be also mine,” said the fine fellow, rising 
and offering his hand to her. “I promise to 
give you a son’s duty and a son’s faithful care, 
so long as we both shall live.” 

‘‘Thank you, dear Bertie, with all my heart,” 
she answered, with emotion. 

“And pray, my good people, am I to be left 
out in the cold?” asked Aunt ’Beth, tears twink- 
ling in her eyelashes. 

“No!” exclaimed ’Beth: ^^you are to be our 
queen, our Bonne Mere in truth. Come, Bertie, 
come mamma, let us show her how much we 
love her.” 

“Keep off! I know it,” cried Aunt ’Beth, 
laughing, as she snatched up a small chair and 
held it before her. “Do they know all this, 
about your resignation, at home yet?” she asked 
Bertie, from behind the rungs of the chair. 

“No indeed. Miss Morley — ” 

“Aunt ’Beth, if you please!” 


’ BETH’S PROMISE. 


476 

“No indeed, dear Aunt ’Beth — ” 

“Ah! that sounds proper; now go on.’’ 

“I came here first, and now I’ll go over and 
tell them,” he said. 

“Yes, go and make them happy,” she said, 
and when he and ’ Beth went out of the room to- 
gether, she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and 
had a quiet cry, thinking of her own boy— her 
brave, noble one, who went “down to the sea in 
ships, ’ ’ and at last returned no more. 


The End. 



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